The Fifteenth Ascendant
by Zahariel
Summary: A What-If fic exploring what would have happened if the Rubric of Ahriman had worked as intended, saving the Thousand Sons from the flesh-change (and granting them a massive power boost in the bargain). WARNING : massive spoilers for the Horus Heresy.
1. A Twist of Fate

AN : Behold ! For the first time in years, a new story !

About two weeks ago, I had re-read the entire Ahriman trilogy, just after finishing The Crimson King. As a result, I was hungry for more Thousand Sons stories, and after the several What If ? I have already done for Warhammer 40K (What if the Emperor became a Chaos God, What if the Great Crusade Succeeded, What if Horus won the Heresy, and, of course, the Roboutian Heresy), I thought this one would be fun to write.

And boy, was I right. I have gotten way, way more involved in it that I anticipated. At first, I thought I would do like with the others : a short story of about 5k words depicting the changes in the universe, then a character wakes up in the canon universe and we realize it was all a dream. Canon is preserved, nothing bad happens, etc. But this one ...

This one was different.

This tale began on Spacebattles, and at first I intended to compile it and publish it in my short stories once it was completed. But it has grown beyond my expectations, and now, at more than 30k words and no sign of stopping soon, I thought it made no sense to keep to that plan. So, instead, here it is. The first thirteen parts of _The Fifteenth Ascendant,_ with more to come. I did not write AN for each of them, because why would I, when they are published on the same day ?

If you have questions, or suggestion for what comes next, tell me in your reviews or by PM. I am writing this fic a lot less seriously than my other stories, which makes it much, much easier to write as a result. (On that note, the next chapter of Warband of the Forsaken Sons is still in the works, about 70% finished, but the remaining 30% are the hardest part to write).

 **WARNING :** this is already mentioned in the story's description, but I think it bears repeating : this story contains spoilers for the Horus Heresy novels. Nothing about the Thousand Sons is safe, and little from the rest.

Zahariel out.

* * *

Khayon exalted. Power coursed through him, through every single one of Ahriman's cabal, strong and ardent and pure. Here, on the Planet of the Sorcerers, years after the humiliating defeat at Terra that had seemingly doomed the entire Legion, they were performing something Magnus himself had forbidden, for he had thought it impossible. Something Khayon, too, had thought impossible. He had put contingencies in place in case it all went wrong as he had feared it would – the _Tlaloc_ was in orbit, with his brother Ashur-Kai ready to open a conduit and send his warriors through at his signal. But it wouldn't be needed, and never before had the Sorcerer be so glad to have been wrong.

He could see Ahriman rising in the air, arcs of unfathomable power linking him to the rest of the circle. Before him, the Book of Magnus floated, its pages turned by invisible hands, symbols flickering on its priceless velum. Its lore, poured forth from the mind of the Crimson King undiluted and untainted through the hands of Mahavastu Kallimakus, had been the foundation of Ahriman's work, and the immense power within was instrumental to the Rubric. Khayon could feel it burn through his body, infusing his every cell and reshaping his genetic code, curing the flaw that had been eating at him for years. The constant press of the flesh-change was fading more and more with every passing second, and he knew that every son of Magnus who yet lived – whether they were here, on the Planet of the Sorcerers, elsewhere in the Eye of Terror, or even beyond its borders across the rest of the galaxy – would feel it too.

Then, at last, the ritual was completed. The Rubric was cast, and the fate of the Thousand Sons was changed forever. There was a flash of light, bright enough to burn the eyes of any mortal. In the distance, Khayon could faintly hear the screams of the mutants that had ineplicably appeared on the Planet of the Sorcerers, as they caught sight of the power unleashed. His sight returned, and despite the exaltation of the cabal's success – for already, his mind could hear the joyful cries of his brothers all across the planet – his blood ran cold as he beheld the towering figure that stood before Ahriman.

 **'Ahzek,'** spoke Magnus the Red. **'You disobeyed me.'**

The Crimson King was as he had been since his restoration : tall and radiant with power, a being of infinite potential and wisdom, clad in elaborate bronze armor whose patterns shifted endlessly, forming esoteric patterns that drew the eye and threatened never to release the observer.

'Father,' replied Ahriman, standing tall and proud before his Primarch. 'You were wrong. It could be done.'

There was a moment of silence, and Khayon feared that Magnus would strike Ahriman down for his insolence – and then turn on the rest of the cabal. Khayon was powerful, and Ahriman even more so. In fact, since the moment the Rubric had been cast, Khayon could feel that his perceptions had grown, and suspected that his full powers might be far stronger than before. Through his bond to Ashur-Kai, he could feel the wonder of his old mentor as his own curse vanished and his powers grew, and his surprise as the rest of their warriors aboard were suddenly filled with energies they had previously struggled to call upon. It appeared that the Rubric had done more than saving the Thousand Sons from the horrors of the flesh-change : it had also energized them, elevated them to new heights of psychic power.

But all members of the cabal were nearly completely exhausted from casting the Rubric. If they were to face the wrath of Magnus, they wouldn't even have enough power to flee – the only chance of survival any of them had against the Primarch without extensive preparations.

But then the moment passed, and Magnus laughed. It was a sound filled with joy and wonder, and the arid sands around the cabal of Sorcerers blossomed with colorful plant life in response to the Primarch's thoughts. The nine suns above seemed to shine brighter, their light falling through the ring of souls that surrounded the daemon world. The Crimson King seized Ahriman and lifted him up, hugging him in a display of emotion Khayon had never seen in his Primarch.

 **'Yes !'** roared Magnus, casting his head back and looking at the twirling skies with his eye, which glowed with a fiery intensity. **'Yes, you were right, Ahriman. It seems that Fate has smiled upon our Legion at last ! I thought we were doomed, that the Arhictect of Fate had turned on us and would only ever enjoy tormenting us. But it seems there is some mercy left in him after all – or perhaps he simply has decided that your efforts are worthy of such a grand reward. It matters not. All that matters is that you have succeeded !'**

Magnus put Ahriman down, and turned to adress the rest of the cabal.

 **'You have done well, my sons. You dared to hope when I had lost hope, just like you dared to save me when I had given up life. I shall not repay your efforts with ingratitude. My brothers have abandoned their sons, drawn to the glories of the Great Game of Chaos. But I shall not abandon you to your fate, never again ! Alone, you have saved our Legion from extinction and given us a future. Together, we shall forge that future ! Though my father is fallen and Horus is dead, we will carve a path for Mankind's ascension ! As you restored the Thousand Sons, so shall we restore the dream of Humanity !'**

The Crimson King lifted a fist to the heavens, magnificent and terrible, and Khayon felt the stirs of glory within him, the old embers that had all but gone to ash in the aftermath of the Horus Heresy. The Daemon Primarch seemed to glow with an inner power greater than anything he had ever displayed before, greater even than when he had been whole. After the end of the Siege of Terra and the Legion's failure to reclaim the remaining soul-shard of the Crimson King, said to be held in chains beneath the Imperial Palace, Magnus had gone hollow and bitter. But now, it appeared that, just like the Fifteenth Legion, Magnus was being restored, his power elevated by the Rubric.

 **'Here, in the Great Eye, we will rebuild the Prosperine Dominion, and recreate all the wonders of Prospero – and surpass them a hundredfold ! While the Imperium falls ever deeper into the darkness of ignorance, we shall keep the torch of knowledge alight. And when the lies that hold the Imperium together inevitably fall apart, we shall be the one to welcome Mankind into the light, and usher in a new age of illumination !'**

'My lord,' said Amon, emerging from the ranks of sorcerers held in rapture by their Primarch's words. The Equerry of the Crimson King was one of the few who was able to not be completely swept away by the Primarch's enthusiasm, though even he was far from unaffected. 'The other Legions will not see it that way. They will fight us, as will the adepts of the Dark Mechanicum, and the other humans who have joined us in our exile to this place …'

 **'They will not stop us,'** declared Magnus, his voice filled with confidence. **'For we are still warriors as much as scholars. Those who are able to see our power and truth shall join us, and be rewarded with the blessings of knowledge. As for the others, if the light of illumination must be preceded with the fires of ruin, then it shall be so !'**

So started the rise of the Fifteenth Ascendant. So was heralded the re-ignition of the Legion Wars.


	2. Rebirth from the Ashes

They came to the Planet of the Sorcerers in their hundreds.

As Khayon had thought, all sons of Magnus felt the curse in their blood vanish and their power increase when the Rubric was cast. Regardless of where they were, regardless of how loyal they had remained to the Crimson King, they were all touched by the Rubric. And they all heard the call of Magnus, carried across time and space on the currents of Ahriman's masterwork.

 _Return to me, my sons. Let us begin anew._

And so they came. Warbands that had splintered from the Legion after the defeat at Terra, groups of warriors who had been away from Prospero when it fell and never been able to find their way back to the Legion in the turmoil of the Heresy. Lone Sorcerers who had left their daemon homeworld to sell their services to other Legions, seeking dark lore and power. All were drawn to Sortiarus – for at long last the Planet of the Sorcerers had accepted a name.

Some came alone, slipping through the tides of the Great Ocean by sorcery and appearing on the plains of Sortiarus without warning or fanfare. Others came with ships, and brought their own followers with them. The line of Magnus had never been a fruitful one, and for each of the Thousand Sons who heeded his father's call, a handful of warriors from other Legions came – as well as thousands of mortal servants. Imperial Regiments turned traitor during the Heresy, renegade tech-priests and their many engines of war, mutants drawn from the thousands of worlds trapped within the Eye of Terror – all where drawn by the renewed power of the sons of Magnus.

The Rubric had transformed the Fifteenth Legion. Before, it had been called a Legion of Sorcerers, but only now was that title really true. Every son of Magnus, even those who had entirely lacked the spark, now wielded psychic power the equal of any other Legion's Librarian. The decimated Cults had been rebuilt, with new ones forming as the Thousand Sons explored new disciplines that had once been forbidden to all. Under the guidance of Ctesias, one of the oldest living sons of Magnus, member of Ahriman's cabal, a school of daemonists was formed, whose members learned the arts of uncovering the true names of the Neverborn and bind them into service.

Those who had already been gifted when the Rubric had been cast had reached new heights of psychic might. These were now called Exalted Sorcerers, and they were second only to their Primarch and the Lords of Change themselves in power. There were around three hundred of them, and each of them had his own silver tower upon Sortiarus, risen into existence through the exercise of his will upon the planet's changing nature.

At the command of the Crimson King, great libraries rose upon Sortiarus, impossible buildings filled with all the knowledge he and any of his sons remembered from lost Prospero. The lore his wandering sons had gathered in the Eye of Terror was added to their shelves, but they were still only filled to less than a hundredth of their capacity, for they had been designed to hold all the knowledge there was in the whole galaxy. Around these libraries, the Thousand Sons built cities in the image of Tizca, filled with pyramids of unbreakable crystals, observatories in which scholars peered at the turbulent heavens, and dwelling and arsenals for their millions of followers.

While their Primarch rebuilt the Planet of the Sorcerers in his image with the help of his sons, the Exalted Sorcerers, led by Ahriman – who had remained the greatest of them through the Rubric, and whose star was now in ascendance in the Warp as well as the Legion – bent their power to a new task. Using the paradoxical nature of the Planet of the Sorcerers, where time and space were malleable by those with strong will, they reached out and rescued those of their brothers who had been lost to the vagaries of the Great Ocean. Warbands who had been trapped into hostile regions of the Eye of Terror were pulled to Sortiarus, lone warriors who had been lost to the Warp during the desperate flight from Prospero dragged back from oblivion.

The cabal even rescued warriors that none on the planet could recognize, and whose armor, while undeniably of the Fifteenth Legion, bore strange symbols and heraldry. Only Magnus knew who these warriors were, and they knelt before him and called him their father – and that was enough for the rest of the Thousand Sons. The truth was that they were echoes from other potential realities, futures that had never come to pass yet still existed in the infinities of the Great Ocean. Ahriman's circle had, without even realizing it, pierced through the walls separating what was from what could have been. Even Magnus in all his pride and majesty feared the dangers of such practices, however, and the Crimson King declared that this work was concluded.

Already five thousand sons of Magnus had been gathered to Sortiarus, more than had truly lived at the end of the Heresy – in truth, more than had survived the Burning of Prospero. That was enough for Magnus' purposes. If the Legion was to grow further, it would be through more traditional means. Without the fear of the flesh-change, the Legion could begin to recruit again, though finding suitable recruits in the Eye of Terror was a challenge all of its own. While the Thousand Sons were protected from the worst effects of the Warp's mutagenous touch, they weren't immune to it, and the Rubric didn't affect their mortal servants. Of the survivors of Prospero who had come with them to Sortiarus, only a few thousands remained, the rest either dead or mutated beyond the limits of the human forms. Tzaangors, beastmen with avian heads and blue skin, dominated much of the cities that rose and fell from Sortiarus' soil, echoes from the distant past – and future – of Mankind and every other species who had ever wondered _why_. They were useful soldiers, cunning and resilient, but they could not be used to create more Legionaries. To do this, the Legion would need to secure new recruiting grounds, on worlds whose people were less affected by the Great Ocean.

Tzeentch, the God of Change, delighted in this twist of the Thousand Sons' fortunes – it was one of the outcomes he had foreseen for the Rubric, but not the one he had believed would happen. Something had occurred that had escaped his sight, a random choice of pure chaos ending on the other side than what he had predicted. Now the wheel of fate was swirling once more, and nothing could please the Changer of Ways more. Always before the Thousand Sons and their Primarch had done his bidding without realizing it, but in the aftermath of the Rubric many now understood who their father had pledged himself too, even if he had not understood it himself at the time. These changed the color of their armor to reflect their allegiance to Tzeentch, abandoning the red of their past for the blue and bronze of their future. Still, they did not offer prayers or sacrifices, for their devotion was weak – they cared for themselves and their Primarch, not the unfathomable whims of Tzeentch. And this too was good in his eyes, for he enjoyed their stubborn refusal to truly submit even as they aknowledged his dominion over them. What a delightful paradox it was !

But his brothers were less pleased. All of them had claimed a Legion as their own, reclaiming the sons the Anathema had created with lore and power He had stolen from them. Each had turned the chosen son into a vessel for his own power, transfiguring them into lords of their own courts. But in the process, they had all broken the Legion born of that Primarch's blood, feeding upon the flames of their ruin. Tzeentch had done the same, breaking the Thousand Sons through the flesh-change, and the manipulation of the Wolves to ensure that Prospero would burn. Yet they had reforged themselves, taking them all by complete surprise. Now Tzeentch was ascendant in the Great Game, his power growing as the Crimson King gathered his forces in the Eye of Terror. While Magnus' brothers played the Great Game of Chaos in the courts of their lord, the Crimson King remained bound to the half-reality of the Eye, anchored there by the great deeds of his sons. And now, with Sortiarus rebuilt and the forces of the Fifteenth Legion renewed, Magnus turned his gaze outward, to the other worlds of the Eye, hungry for the knowledge that was to be found there. But something obstructed his sight, for while he was busying himself with his Legion's rebirth, the other Dark Gods had moved to quell the ascension of the Thousand Sons.


	3. The Cunning of the Arch-Sorcerer

At the command of their Gods, Greater Daemons and Daemon Princes had marshalled the hosts of the Lost and the Damned. They had whispered in the ears of mortal and Astartes alike, speaking promises of glory, power, plunder and revenge. Their words – truth and lie in equal measure – drove their champions to gather in an armada of hundreds of warships and millions of soldiers. This fleet met above a world that had once been a prosperous colony of the Eldar Empire, but was now inhabited only by the tormented ghosts of the soul-broken. The agonized screams of the dead provided some shielding from the scrying of the Thousand Sons, but before the fleet could attack, matters of leadership had to be settled, and the lords of the gathered host met on the planet, bringing their champions with them. As is the nature of all who walk the Path to Glory, the lords each thought themselves only worthy of leading the army, but most knew that their power was not enough to do so, and they descended onto the dead world only to see which of the contenders would triumph, and align themselves with him. They thought themselves hidden from their foe, and it was true that Magnus had not sensed their gathering, so preoccupied was he with the work on Sortiarus.

But Ahriman, having achieved his rescue of those of his brothers lost to the tides of the Great Ocean, had turned his gaze outward once more. And he alone had seen the gathering, and learned what it portended. Unwilling to disturb his father from his great work, and confident in his own power, the Arch-Sorcerer of Tzeentch – as he was then known to the Neverborn, if not to himself – left the Planet of Sorcerers. With him came Khayon, and Sanakht, two of those who had cast the Rubric alongside him and with whom he shared the news of the danger he had discovered. Both were Exalted Sorcerers, but while Khayon had become a daemonist of considerable skill, having bound mighty Neverborn with unique and strange abilities into his service, Sanakht was a supreme swordsman, his foresight guiding his blade in battle.

Secrecy shrouded them as they used their power, rather than ships, to travel the Eye and arrive at the gathering. Mighty as they were, they could not hope to prevail against such a host alone – but ever had cunning been the weapon of the Thousand Sons, and Ahriman had a plan.

The three of them emerged from the portal amidst the toppled stones of what might have once been a temple to the Eldar gods. Three towering figures in ceramite armor, with a single addition to their group : a pale wolf that wasn't a wolf, stalking at the side of the one of them who carried an axe rather than a sword or a staff. The axe wasn't a weapon many sons of Magnus had ever enjoyed, finding it too brutish for their tastes, and the events of Prospero had done nothing to alleviate that disdain. But none would have dared to challenge the axe-bearer for his use of the weapon, for its blade was engraved with a wolfhead that marked it as trophy, taken in the very battle that had changed so much for the Thousand Sons. It was _Saern_ , weapon of a champion of the Space Wolves, taken from his obliterated corpse during the Burning of Prospero.

Ahriman, Sanakht, Khayon and his familiar Gyre were all clad in a veil of deceit that obscured the Astartes armor, making it seem black and masking their Legion's symbols. To the outside eye, living, writhing shadows covered them, making them appear as half-daemonic wraiths, beings on their way up the Path to Glory and ascension to daemonhood. The absence of emblems of allegiance would make the others think them renegades, who had either abandoned or been cast out of their Legion. There was no masking their nature as Sorcerers, but all of them were holding their power in check, careful not to let anything in their auras that might reveal them as sons of Magnus.

 _What was this world's name before it died ?_ Khayon asked Gyre through the telepathic bond the two of them shared.

The reply from the she-wolf was, as always, a flash of emotions and sensations, but his mind translated it into a name : _Elliathorel,_ the Pearl of Unshed Tears.

As they emerged from the ruins and into the vast plaza where the lords of the host had gathered, Gyre vanished into the shadows. There were some in the other Legions who might recognize her, and not many Sorcerers kept daemonic wolves as their familiars. While the Neverborn enjoyed the predatory image of the form, its association with the dogs of Russ meant that most practicionners of the Art would rather not have a constant reminder of the Rout near them.

Many warlords were already there, hailing from all Nine Legions save for the one they proposed to attack. The plagued children of Mortarion stood apart from all, and most gave the depraved sons of Fulgrim an equally large berth. Humans and mutants had also come, though most of them had already fallen in line with one of the Astartes leaders. Emissaries from Titan Legions were surrounded by guards of skitarii, their princeps observing the proceedings through their eyes.

At a glance, Ahzek saw that most of the warlords had already separated in three factions, each with its own leader. One was a champion of the Twelfth Legion, the World Eaters, with a collar of black iron around his neck – a gift from the Blood God that shielded him from all sorcery. His armored, blood-stained gauntlets held the haft of a great two-handed axe whose blades rested on the ground. His was the largest following, though most of those arrayed behind him were mortals rather than Astartes, drawn to the violence and bloodlust that radiated from his every move. As his side was a small, wretched creature covered in rags, who held a tall banner of skulls with its thin arms and spoke in the name of its master, for only grunts passed through the lips of the son of Angron. This lord saw the three Sorcerers appear first, and at a gesture its herald spoke :

'My master, Akishtaraz the Unbroken, bids you to kneel before him and join in his army, lest he destroys you for your craven sorcerous ways.'

Ahriman ignored the threat, and instead turned his gaze to the second great lord. He had once been a Legionary of the Word Bearers, but was now something else entirely. In his thirst for power, the warrior had given over his flesh to the denizens of the Great Ocean, welcoming them inside his soul to gain a fraction of their power in return. A pair of great, bat-like wings rose from his back, folded for now. His left arm appeared normal enough, but his right ended in a giant, crab-like pincer that reminded Ahriman of the lesser daemons of the Dark Prince, Slaanesh. His head was covered with a crimson helm with twin horns of white ivory, but the Arch-Sorcerer could sense the corruption writhing beneath. Another son of Lorgar stood a pace behind him, holding aloft a banner of human hide upon which was inscribed the symbol of a six-fingered black hand with an eye in its palm.

'I am Nirkalesh,' he said in the dual voice typical of the Secondborn, 'Blessed Scion of Lorgar, master of the Six-clawed Eye. Join me, and once I have dealt with these fools, we shall feast on the bones of the Fifteenth once we have cast their precious towers down.'

Once again Ahriman ignored the offer, and looked upon the one remaining overlord. He towered above all others, for while Akishtaraz was swollen with the power of the Blood God and Nirkalesh twisted by the strength of the Neverborn, this last warlord had abandoned mortality altogether. The rusted remnants of power armor on his bloated form marked him as having once been a Legionary, and a faded emblem showed him to have once belonged to the Death Guard. Rotten guts hung from a festering wound in his chest, clouds of flies hovered in the air above his head, and he held a power scythe whose rusted aspect belied the power Ahriman felt radiating from it.

' **I am Peraclitus,'** boomed the Daemon Prince, his voice sickeningly friendly and warm. **'Champion of the Sevenfold Scars, the Blessing of the Obliviate World, chosen son of Grandfather Nurgle. Kneel, or die. It matters little to me, and less to my god. All serve the Lord of Decay eventually. But in life you might come with me to the Planet of the Sorcerers, and help bring the truth of Nurgle to the ignorants who dwell there. The God of Life and Death welcomes all in his embrace, even those cast out by all others.'**

All eyes were now turned to the trio of shadow-clad Sorcerers who had wandered in the gathering's midst. Despite their disguise, those with the psychic gift could still feel the power of these new arrivals, and even those without knew of the threat they posed through the instincts that all those who dwell in the Great Eye must develop, or perish. Before, there had been a balance between the three greater warlords, each unwilling to risk his forces by openly challenging the others and instead persuading those who remained undecided to align with him alone. But all could sense that this balance was about to be broken.

'No,' said Ahriman at last. 'We shall kneel to none of you. You are all naught but fools, puppets of your gods, slaves to powers you do not understand. It is _us_ who shall lead this army to the Planet of the Sorcerers.'

He hammered his Black Staff onto the dried ground of Elliathorel, and at his signal his two brothers separated, each marching toward one of the three groups. In the stunned silence that followed Ahriman's proclamation, Sanakht walked to Akishtaraz, his blades slipping free of their sheathes. Khayon went to the Possessed Word Bearer, the crystal shards embedded into _Saern_ 's shaft glowing with inner light.

'Face us, all of you,' declared Ahriman. 'Fight to prove your worth, or be branded cowards.'

At these words, Berzerker, Possessed and Daemon Prince all reacted the same : with a scream of outrage and bloodlust mingled, before striking at the Sorcerer in front of them. Ahriman's attention was wholly focused on Peraclitus then, trusting his two brothers to triumph in their own duels. Peraclitus was mighty, filled with the strength granted to him by his god, but he was slow, and Ahriman had a few moments before the daemon's scythe came down upon him. Rising in the Enumerations, he gathered his power for a single devastating blow, and cast his psychic attack just before the Warp-touched weapon could pierce through his armor and cleave him in two.

A bolt of burning lightning burst forth from his staff and borrowed within the Daemon Prince's exposed entrails. There it detonated, unleashing the full power of the Arch-Sorcerer of Tzeentch within the core of the scion of Nurgle. Peraclitus' body was obliterated in an explosion of bright light, his scythe sent flying out into the ruins surrounding the plaza. The shroud of buzzing flies was incinerated, the tiny daemons' essence completely annihilated. Only the head of the Daemon Prince remained, charred nearly completely black. Even in that sorry state, it still moaned, some shred of Peraclitus' immortal essence still bound to it while the greater part of his essence was cast back into the Warp screaming in agony.

Ahriman turned from his defeated foe just in time to see his brothers claim their own victory. Sanakht, faster and more gifted with the blade than the brute Akishtaraz could ever have been, cut off the hands of the Khornate warlord before severing his neck in a crossed strike from his swords. And Khayon, using his mastery of daemonology, turned the Neverborn within Nirkalesh's body against him, binding the creature to his will and destroying the Word Bearer from within. Silence fell upon the plaza, as the victorious Sorcerers stood before the three hosts whose leaders they had just slain. Tension filled the air, and Ahriman knew that this was the moment his entire plan rested upon, the one where things had the potential to go horribly wrong.

The duels had just been a prelude to this, executions whose outcome had never been in doubt. The former First Captain of the Fifteenth Legion – a title that meant nothing now, but perhaps would one day have meaning again – had foreseen the nature of each of the three warlords before leaving Sortiarus. His companions had been chosen for their special skills, that would make them the best match for each of the potential foes they would need to kill. He could not afford to fail, for Sortiarus was not ready to face the full might of the gathered host yet. His plan _had_ to work, lest the Rubric's success go to waste.

Each of the warlords they had slain had been a power in his own right, a contender for supremacy in the Eye of Terror of great reputation and might – yet they had been dispatched with ease, as Ahriman had planned. He had spent a long time crafting the spell that had slain Peraclitus, just as he had trained Sanakht to face Akishtaraz, sharing his scrying of the Berzerker Lord with his brother. Khayon alone had needed to preparations save for being forewarned that he would face a Possessed – his knowledge of daemons was such that this was enough for him to deal with Nirkalesh.

'I am your master !' he roared, lifting his Black Staff high along with Peraclitus' head. Khayon and Sanakht responded to his signal, raising their own weapons in both triumph and threat.

'Who are you ?' came the cry from the assembled warlords, as many knew fear for the first time in decades at the sight of the power of the three Sorcerers.

'We are the Exiles,' said Ahriman, 'and by that name alone shall you know us, until your fleets have battled in Sortiarus' skies and this crusade against the sons of Magnus is over.'

Then the lords who had submitted to the three dead knelt, and so did those who hadn't yet joined one of the three groups. Ahriman pointed to the Word Bearer who was still bearing the banner of Nirkalesh's Chapter :

'We shall take quarters aboard your flagship. All vessels are to prepare for the journey to Sortiarus – I will give the command to leave myself. Much glory and rewards shall be given to those who follow my orders – but those who try to defy or betray me, I shall leave broken and ruined without they having ever seen the soil of the Planet of the Sorcerers.'

The journey to Sortiarus took several weeks, and during that time the three Sorcerers were far from idle. They fanned the flames of discord within the ranks of the fleet, increasing tensions and creating new feuds. In secret, Ahriman reached out to those in the host he believed could be of use to the Fifteenth Legion, ensuring their loyalty to him through threats and promises. He did not waste his time approaching those who served the Plague God, for while Ahriman was yet unwilling to admit, even to himself, that he served Tzeentch with his every thought, he knew enough that the scions of Nurgle would never let the Thousand Sons rise to dominance.

And so it was that when Magnus, having completed his works on the Planet of the Sorcerers, looked up and saw the fleets of his enemies in the heavens above, this fleet was already under the control of his own sons. At Ahriman's signal, the fleet turned on itself, treachery coming all too easily to those who had embraced the Ruinous Powers. With the slightest intervention of Sortiarus' orbital defences, the armada dissolved into anarchy, with only a few warbands Ahriman had selected being spared from destruction or disastrous flight. When the battle ended, these warbands were added to the force marshalled at the Planet of the Sorcerers, their ships joining the growing fleet arrayed there. Then, Ahriman and his two accomplices descended to the Tower of the Cyclops, and were welcomed there by Magnus himself, as well as an honor guard of their brethren.

' **You did well, my sons,'** said the Crimson King, and he gave the three of them great honor. But when he was alone with Ahriman, he added : **'You should have come to me with warning of this threat, Ahriman, rather than elect to deal with it yourself. You have accomplished great things, things I did not believe were possible, but the path you walk is a dangerous one. Be careful that your pride, however justified it might be, does not cause your end. You are mighty and wise, and the favor of Tzeentch is upon you – but fortune is a whimsical mistress, and she will turn on you in the end.'**

'All I have done, I did for the Legion,' replied Ahriman, and Magnus nodded.

' **This I know, my son. Your love for your brothers do you credit. The dream you gave us back with the Rubric is fragile, however, and must be protected. Now that I have once more turned my eye to the grander patterns of the universe, I see that the threat you removed was but one expression of our enemies' displeasure with our ascension. New forces are being gathered in the Eye, warlords elevated by the other three gods. In their fortresses, my brothers stir, roused from their parts in the Great Game.'**

'You are greater than them all, father,' said Ahriman. 'Surely we can match anything the other Legions could throw at us.'

' **One of them, yes,'** shrugged Magnus. **'Two, perhaps. But not even us can stand alone against all others. More importantly, if we are to succeed in our dream and create here a kingdom of illumination, we** ** _must_** **not be alone. Many of my brothers' sons have already rallied to our banner, brought by your brothers when they returned to me. But they are either opportunists drawn by our power, or lone visionaries with little influence in their broken Legions. I need to contact those of my brothers who might stand with us in this grand endeavour of ours.'**

'Do you wish to send embassies to your brothers then ? Messengers offering an alliance ?'

' **Yes,'** replied the Crimson King. **'But not to all of them. Mortarion will always oppose me – his distrust for all that he sees as witchery blinds him to the chains laid upon his soul by the god to whom he sold his Legion, and the Father of Plagues will stand against us forever. Angron is too lost to rage, despite Lorgar's attempt to save his life, and the God of War will not look kindly upon our designs in any case. Fulgrim … well, not even I know where the Phoenician has gone, and I suspect most of you would rather face the Emperor's Children as foes than have them on our side. Alpharius is vanished, and Konrad is dead. This leaves only Perturabo and Lorgar.'**

'We were close to both of their Legions before the Heresy,' Ahriman pointed out. 'Perhaps these old ties might yet be renewed.'

' **I hope so, but they have changed, just as we have changed. The Lord of Iron dwells within his fortress on Medrengard, brooding on past defeats and victories alike while his sons do battle against each other over meaningless grudges. And Lorgar sits in his retreat on Sicarus, leaving the leadership of his Legion to these two snakes, Erebus and Kor Phaeron, while he contemplates what he thinks is the will of the gods. Neither of them is in league with those who we know will be our enemies, but nor have they any reason to stand with us. We must reach out to them, and convince them to, if not join us, then at least remain neutral in the coming war against those who would extinguish the light of knowledge forever.'**

'I am yours to command, sire,' declared Ahriman, kneeling before his father.

' **Yes,'** said Magnus, a glimmer of amusement in his eye, **'I know you are ever the obedient son. I will send Ignis to Perturabo. The Master of Ruin's mind best ressembles that of the Lord of Iron out of all of us. Make sure the Word Bearers do not stand against us, my son.'**


	4. Servants of the Gods

Ahriman watched the daemonic homeworld of the Seventeenth Legion through the occulus of the _Tlaloc's_ bridge. Khayon's ship had been selected as the one carrying the embassy to Lorgar – it was strong and quick enough to take care of itself, had a competent crew and Ashur-Kai, Khayon's former teacher and now his subordinate, could guide it almost anywhere in the Eye of Terror. The vessel had also been refitted in Sortiarus' new shipyards, vast constructions that were only in part composed of metal, the rest conjured from the Warp by the Exalted Sorcerers. Now, the _Tlaloc_ was a two-kilometers long spear of bronze and sapphire, gleaming in the light of the Eye. Its central consciousness, the entity known as the Anamnesis, had been gifted with numerous automatas – hundreds of cybernetic constructs equiped with the new weaponry designed in the Planet of the Sorcerers' forges. Made to repeal boarders, they could, in a pinch, be deployed on a planet, the transmissions of their control systems boosted by new technologies.

Apart from Ahriman, Khayon and Ashur-Kai, the _Tlaloc_ was also carrying a hundred warriors of the Thousand Sons, Khayon's company restored to full strength in the Legion's reforging. Sanakht also accompanied them, the swordsman having apparently vowed that he would keep Ahriman safe at all costs after the Rubric had saved the Fifteenth Legion. With so many Sorcerers onboard, the ship's corridors were even more haunted than usual, and the trip had been … exciting. No mortal had been able to sleep peacefully, though not all had suffered from nightmares. Vivid dreams had filled all but the most heavily drugged slumber as the Thousand Sons' aura agitated the Warp. If not for the fact that the Anamnesis never slept, it was possible the crew wouldn't have been able to keep the ship sailing during the nine months of on-board time the journey had taken.

The Thousand Sons themselves hadn't been affected, of course. The Exalted Sorcerers had long since learned to ward their dreams against all outside influence, and they had shared that lore with those of their Legion newly awakened to psychic power. These wards could do nothing against the terrors that lived in their own subconscious, though – Ahriman knew, even if Khayon never spoke of it, that his brother still suffered from dreams of Prospero's fall. But at least the Sorcerers' presence aboard had prevented any true Neverborn manifestation – the denizens of the Warp rightly afraid of the power of the Thousand Sons. There _had_ been plenty of the smaller creatures, spawned from a moment's emotions and deeds, but those were vermin, no threat to even the mortal crew. Nothing at all like the creatures that dwelled on their destination by the thousand.

In the eyes of the Arch-Sorcerer of Tzeentch, Sicarus was a vision straight out of some pagan hell of antiquity. That some would have said the same of the Planet of the Sorcerers did not trouble him – he knew there was beauty in Sortiarus, beauty and a noble purpose : to grant illumination to those who sought it, and shelter them from the dangers of a hostile universe. By contrast, Sicarus was a world of lies, built upon the worship of the sentient Warp Storms that masqueraded as gods. Magnus had warned Ahriman not to underestimate Lorgar or his Legion, and dismiss them as mere zealots. The Word Bearers had learned many of the universe's secret truths, though the price they had paid for them had been greater than anything the Thousand Sons had ever had to sacrifice.

But it was difficult to keep his disgust in check when he looked at the planet with both his first and sixth senses. He could feel the adoration, the blind worship, the suffering of the _billions_ of humans who had been brought to Sicarus. Most of those wouldn't live more than the few weeks it would take them to make their way through the lines leading to the sacrificial pits, where Word Bearers endlessly offered human lives to the Dark Gods they served. Towering cathedrals built of human bone, far taller than anything that could ever exist on a world outside the Eye of Terror, were filled with relics of the Primordial Truth. Mausoleums the size of cities held the mortal remains of the "saints" of this evil faith, Legionaries and mortals alike – though the two were separated, even the lowest son of Lorgar reserved honors far above those of the most faithful human devotee. The entire planet radiated misplaced worship and fanaticism, and it made Ahriman want to retch.

A fleet hang in orbit, ships from various Chapters currently returned to Sicarus from raids in Eyespace and beyond. For all the improvements that had been added to the _Tlaloc_ , the ship wouldn't last a minute if they decided to turn their guns on it. The defenses nearly matched those that had been built around Sortiarus since the Rubric had been cast, though none would be foolish enough to attack the Word Bearers' homeworld. Before Magnus had issued his call and brought back his sons, they had been the only Legion left with any kind of true unity, thanks to their Dark Council. There was still conflict within the ranks of Lorgar's sons – the Dark Council was as riddled with intrigue and power-grabbing as any institution the galaxy had ever seen – but it was contained.

Fortunately, they were here on a diplomatic mission.

'Open a channel,' he asked to a mask on the wall, knowing the Anamnesis watched and listened through it. Once his armor's systems had confirmed that he was online, he continued, speaking with all the dignity and presence his time as First Captain had ingrained into him :

'I am Ahzek Ahriman, envoy of Magnus the Red, Primarch of the Fifteenth Legion. I seek an audience with Lorgar, the Urizen, lord of the Bearers of the Word and master of Sicarus, to deliver to him a message from his brother.'

'We have an audio an visual transmission,' said the Anamnesis through the vox-speakers of the bridge after a few minutes.

Ahriman turned from the occulus and marched to the main hololith at the center of the bridge. Khayon and Sanakht walked to his side, and the three of them stood in a triangle before the device. Seconds later, the hololithic image of Sicarus that had been projected on the hololith vanished, and a projection of a smug, snake-like face covered in runic tatoos replaced it.

'First Chaplain Erebus,' greeted Ahriman.

'Ahzek,' came the reply, curt enough to be insulting. 'I don't know what you are hoping to achieve here, but Lorgar's meditations are not to be disturbed. If you have a message for the Legion, then you might pass it on to me. I will share it with the rest of the Dark Council and give you our reply to the Cyclops in due time ...'

 **AHRIMAN,** boomed a psychic voice such as the Arch-Sorcerer hadn't heard since the time of his Primarch's madness, before he had been restored after the flight from Prospero and had sometimes screamed his thoughts across the Planet of the Sorcerers. **COME TO ME.**

While Ahriman struggled to endure such power being directed right at him, he dimly perceived that the call had been heard across the entire daemonworld. It shook the foundations of the fortress, and caused the collapse of several cathedrals, crushing thousands of worshippers under the bones of their predecessors. This was the voice of a god making sure he would be heard, heedless of the collateral damage he might cause. The casual use of such power chilled Ahriman to the bone.

As the echoes of the voice faded, Ahriman vowed that, until his dying night, he would treasure the memory of the look on Erebus' face at that moment. Shock, surprise, outrage, and not a small part of terror all mixed together on the face of the Dark Apostle. It seemed that it had been a long time since Erebus had been reminded of just how easily Lorgar could take his entire little dominion over the Legion away with nothing more than a word at any time the Primarch felt like it.

'I will come down as soon as a Thunderhawk can get me there,' said Ahriman, doing his best to sound cordial, as if nothing peculiar had just happened. 'I am certain I can find Lorgar, do not worry.'

The _Templum Inficio_ stood some distance away from the centers of power of Sicarus, for none dared come close to Lorgar's lair. A cordon of bound daemonhosts kept watch, further discouraging any intrusion. Somehow, as he passed between two of them with Khayon and Sanakht at his side – an escort which he knew had increased Erebus' rage even more – Ahriman wasn't sure whether the creatures were there to guard the Primarch's temple or prevent him from leaving without the Dark Council's knowledge. Was Lorgar a prisoner of his own Legion's officers ? The very notion was absurd, for surely no Astartes could hope to defeat a Daemon Primarch, and the very idea of challenging Lorgar must have been impossible for a Word Bearer. Yet the ambition, the naked hunger for power he had seen in Erebus' eyes, prevented Ahriman from discarding the idea entirely.

'I alone was summoned,' said Ahriman when they reached the gates of the temple. 'Stay here and await my return.'

Maybe Lorgar wouldn't be offended by more guests, but Ahriman wasn't going to take risks. The power he sensed from within the _Templum Inficio_ was incredible. Despite Magnus' warnings, he had, at least subconsciously, thought that Lorgar would be inferior in power to his own Primarch. And that was true – Magnus surpassed the Urizen in both sorcerous lore and raw psychic potential. But strength and weakness are matters of degree, and Lorgar was still a Primarch whose last shreds of human weakness had been shed when he had been elevated by the four Dark Gods into the circles of the Neverborn.

Ahriman passed between the massive double gate, made of pure obsidian and engraved with Colchisian runes that glowed with the power of the Warp. Two daemonic statues the size of Warhound Titans stood on guard, one on each side of the gate, and the son of Magnus had no doubt at all they could start moving at the second an intruder tried to pass them by.

The inside of the _Templum_ wasn't like anything Ahriman had ever seen, and he had seen many things, from the wonders of Tizca to the horrors of the Great Eye in his quest to perfect the Rubric, and before, to save his father. In the following days, however, he would struggle to remember what he had seen, despite all the training his mind had gone through. He would vaguely remember visions of impossible abysses that looped in on themselves so that a glimpse downward showed his own body from above, torches that burned with the fire of dying worlds, and an infinite chamber whose walls were covered in small octagons, each of which held a moving image of a face in prayer. There must have been billions, even trillions of the figures, and at the center of the room, standing before a lectern upon which rested a book that was closed as Ahriman drew near, was Lorgar himself. Other grimoires hang in the air around the figure, suspended in place by transdimensional structures Ahriman could feel with his mind but not see with his eyes.

' **Ahriman. I have been waiting for you.'**

Ahriman hadn't seen Lorgar since the gathering in the _Vengeful Spirit_ 's strategium, just before the attack on Terra. Back then, the Primarch of the Word Bearers had still been as mortal as a gene-son of the Emperor could be, though he had radiated a power and confidence he had not possessed before. No one knew exactly the circumstances of Lorgar's ascension – Ahriman wasn't sure the Word Bearers themselves knew, but if they did, they made sure not to share it with outsiders.

This new Lorgar was as different from the war-priest who had stood at Horus' side on the _Vengeful Spirit_ than the fiery zealot had been from the humble preacher who had first taken command of the Seventeenth Legion, but the changes were far more obvious. A cloak of dark fire wreathed Lorgar, and his once handsome face was now a fiery infernal skull, looking down at Ahriman from atop a suit of twisted armor twice as tall as the son of Magnus.

Yet despite all these changes, no one could mistake the Daemon Primarch for anyone but who he was. His form seemed to scream his identity, causing something primordial in the soul of all who looked upon him to recognize him with utter certainty. Ahriman was certain that even a priest of the Imperium's Ecclesiarchy would know Lorgar for who and what he was upon first glance – right before either falling over dead or starting to scream madly, never to stop.

'Lord Lorgar,' replied Ahriman, kneeling before the true master of the Seventeenth Legion, no matter what Erebus might think. 'It has been a long time.'

The Daemon Primarch chuckled, the sound akin to planets being torn apart by cyclonic torpedoes.

' **Not so long here, Ahriman. And not long at all in the eyes of the Gods.'**

Ahriman did his best to conceal his unease at the mention of the Ruinous Powers, but it was a vain attempt. One could not hide anything from a being such as Lorgar if he cared to look for it.

' **You still do not believe in the Gods, Ahriman, even after you have risen so high into the favor of the Changer of Ways. You know they exist, but refuse to pay fealty to them. That is part of the reason the Great Mutator granted you the boon you fought so much to claim, I think.'**

Ahriman bristled. 'The Rubric ...'

' **Was a gift,'** interrupted Lorgar. **'It came from your own efforts and those of your cabal, certainly, and was built upon the knowledge of Magnus himself – but do not let yourself be blinded by pride, Ahriman. Such has ever been your Legion's flaw, inherited from my brother. The Rubric only worked because the Architect of Fate allowed it to do so, for reasons of his own. Tzeentch doesn't care for your prayers – you serve him better by following your own desires and goals – but take care not to anger him. What has been given can be taken away, and no Legion can survive with the entire Octet angry at them. Just look at what has befallen the Sons of Horus.'**

Ahriman nodded, conceding the point. The Sixteenth Legion had fallen far since the death of their Primarch and the defeat at Terra. Nearly every other Traitor Legion blamed them for their sudden flight from the battlefield after Horus' demise, though Ahriman thought that to be rather foolish. The war had been lost the moment Horus had failed to defeat the Emperor – and as someone whose Primarch had come very close to death, he had a better understanding of the psychological shock the death of Horus would have caused to every Legionary born of his gene-seed.

But logic was in short supply in the Eye of Terror, and anger and vengeance plentiful and stoked by the displeasure of the Dark Gods over the failure of their chosen champion. The Sons of Horus were being hunted down, their extinction promised to them by warlords of all stripes. The disappearance of Abaddon, First Captain of the Legion, had deprived them of strong leadership, and their domains in the Eye were quickly diminishing as world after world was taken from them. Soon, Lupercalia itself would come under attack – though the opportunists and pirates would find the Warmaster's mausoleum a thougher nut to crack than anything they had already conquered.

Perhaps the situation of the Fifteenth would be different – they still had their Primarch, after all. But Lorgar must have sensed that thought, for he shook his head and continued :

' **Magnus has made a mistake in returning to you, Ahriman. You might rejoice at his renewed leadership, but he could only do so by leaving the Great Game. And while some of your brothers have accepted and submitted to Tzeentch's will, none of them have yet ascended to the ranks of his princes. That leaves your Legion without any defender at the Court of Change, vulnerable to the whims of the God of Fate. Your Rubric changed the fate of your Legion, Ahriman, and while you think you saved them from extinction, the truth might be that you only doomed them.'**

'The flesh-change would have destroyed us !' protested Ahriman, unable to stop himself.

' **No, it would not have. The weak would have succumbed to it, and the strong been remade by it into new and infinitely varied forms. You would have been far fewer, but still powerful, while not such a threat to the other Legions that the other three Gods focused against you.'**

'And we would have been nothing,' argued the son of Magnus. 'Shadows of our former glory, twisted into monsters. At least the Rubric gave us a chance to fight for a future worth living.'

Lorgar nodded slowly.

' **Indeed. You gave them that dream, Ahriman, the dream of an empire to rival that which abandoned us. The Sea of Souls echoes with the potential of that dream, and millions of souls across the galaxy are touched by it in their dreams. But if you want the Thousand Sons to have any hope of achieving it, you will need to protect them from their new enemies, and that is not something you can do as you are now. You will need to claim your place as the Arch-Sorcerer of Tzeentch, and shed your mortality to take up your Primarch's role in the Great Game, while he remains bound to this side of the Veil and leads your brothers to fulfill your shared vision. I know,'** he raised a hand to silence any objection Ahriman might voice, **'you do not believe this to be so. But I ask that you remember these words, and that you consider heeding them when darkness gathers around your Legion. Now, I believe you have a message for me ?'**

Ahriman took a few seconds to calm himself, filing the words of Lorgar away for further consideration. He had a duty here, handed to him by Magnus himself, and he would not fail the Crimson King. Once again, he took up the voice and attitude he had wielded as his Legion's representative during the Great Crusade, and declared :

'My lord, Magnus the Red, sends me to you with an offer. He has begun to rebuild the lost Prosperine Dominion, seeking to create a haven of illumination in the Eye of Terror, safe from the Imperium's paranoid hatred of knowledge. He asks you, who placed the illumination of Mankind to the galaxy's truths ahead of any other consideration, to join him in his endeavour. Once our Legions were close friends, before the lies of the False Emperor and the infamy of Nikaea set us apart. Let us be allied once more in this common purpose, as the galaxy darkens in the ignorance of the False Emperor's heirs.'

For a long moment, Lorgar was silent. Then, he said :

' **The Octet is divided, Ahriman. Three of its heads want your Legion broken if not dead, while the last one watches over you and laughs approvingly at your defiance of fate. But I am the Arch-Priest of the Primordial Truth, and am bound to follow the commands of the Primordial Annihilator. No, nephew, I cannot defy the will of the Pantheon and align myself with one against the others. But I do have something for you, as a compensation for your journey.'**

Lorgar reached out, and seized one of the books that had been suspended on invinsible shelves. To the outside eye, it was an innocuous thing, with a black leathery cover devoid of any marking, small enough to fit in a human's pocket, which made it look comically small in the Primarch's hand. But the moment Lorgar touched it, his blazing psychic aura revealed dozens of shadowy spirits swarming around the book, soon sent into flight by the Primarch's power. Furthermore, what had appeared to be mere leather was unaffected by the touch of Lorgar's flame-wreathed armor. Clearly there was more to this book than met the eye.

' **This is the Necroteuch. As far as I know, there is only one other copy left in existence, and it will be many centuries before it is uncovered. Within it lies much of the knowledge our forebears had of the Primordial Truth. An envoy of the Gods delivered it to me, but I believe it belongs in the new libraries of Sortiarus. Take it with you, as a token of my friendship to your Legion. I cannot order the Word Bearers to join you, but I can ensure the Dark Council is aware that neither should they ally with your enemies. Give my regards to Magnus.'**

That was what Ahriman's orders from Magnus had demanded, though the former First Captain would rather have brought back a true alliance to his father. But there was no point in arguing further, except to endanger what Lorgar had already offered. With a bow of thanks, Ahriman reached out and carefully picked up the Necroteuch from Lorgar's proferred hand. He could feel the malevolence of the book, the forbidden knowledge penned in struggling to crack through his mind's barriers and infect it with its corruption. Dangerous, very dangerous – but also filled with potential.

' **Oh, Ahriman. There is something else I should tell you.'** The eyes of Lorgar blazed, the infernal fire within them growing in intensity in response to his emotions – but what those were, Ahriman couldn't begin to guess. **'Sortiarus is already under siege. Mortarion's fleet just arrived there, and I can sense the echoes of the battle across the Great Ocean. Go swiftly, and fight well.'**

It took Ahriman one whole second to process what the Daemon Primarch had just said and formulate a coherent response. After that, it took him three seconds to sketch a quick bow and say goodbye. Then, using his powers to speed himself, it took ninety-three seconds for him to reach the exit of Lorgar's temple, bursting out of the door with the speed of a bolt shell and almost shattering the obsidian gates with his passage. Three minutes later and he was back aboard the _Tlaloc_ through a hole Khayon and Ashur-Kai had ripped in the fabric of reality, abandoning the Thunderhawk in their haste. One hour later, the ship was leaving the system after a few last communications with the lords of the Seventeenth, apologizing for the sudden departure and making sure both Erebus and Kor Phaeron were aware of their gene-sire's decision to remain uninvolved in the war that had apparently already begun.

That these communications were on open channels, ensuring every Word Bearer on Sicarus knew what their Primarch had decided rather than restricting that knowledge to the esteemed members of the Dark Council, was of course purely coincidence. Why, with the news delivered by Lorgar of such dire import, surely the Thousand Sons could be forgiven a few mistakes in coms protocol. Even with the threat to his Legion hanging in his mind, Ahriman still took pleasure in Kor Phaeron and Erebus' contained anger as they were deprived of any chance of taking advantage of their Primarch's silence on this matter. Both of the old bastards had raised the ship on the vox as soon as Ahriman had left the _Templum Inficio,_ desperate to learn what their Primarch had said to him. Once again, Ahriman was struck by how disloyal the Black Cardinal and the first Dark Apostle really were to their gene-sire, lost as they were to their own ambitions. It disgusted him.

Yet in the end, all the speed of the warband was in vain. For a few days after the departure from Sicarus, the _Tlaloc_ was visited by the avatar of a god, and its course and purpose were changed.


	5. War of Sorcery

This time, Magnus wasn't caught unprepared.

Since Ahriman's departure, the Crimson King had turned the whole of his considerable intellect to the defense of what he and his sons had already built on Sortiarus. The Corvidae, their foresight renewed by the Rubric, had been unanimous. New enemies to the Legion were rising, and it would be a long time before they were all defeated and the Thousand Sons' dream of a kingdom of knowledge in the Great Eye could become reality. Circles of Sorcerers sent messages throughout the Eye of Terror and beyond, calling those seeking illumination to them, while others marshalled the hosts of mutants on Sortiarus or summoned armies of bound daemons. Despite Ahriman's success at neutralizing the last threat to Sortiarus, the sudden appearance of a hostile fleet in-system had brought back the memories of Prospero's fate. When the next attack came, the Exalted Sorcerers vowed, it would find the Planet of the Sorcerers ready.

While reality was malleable within the entire Eye of Terror, it was even more so in the region occupied by Sortiarus. The daemon world was orbited by nine suns, each far smaller than any star ought to be, barely twice as big as Luna itself – though, like every other stellar body there, their size varied depending on impredictable ways. They moved in the heavens in patterns that some of the Thousand Sons had spent centuries studying from their time-warped towers, and even they had only a partial understanding of the metaphysics involved. Regardless, the nine suns made it almost impossible for a fleet to approach Sortiarus in order, both because of their gravitic pull and because of the solar flares that randomly erupted from them, sending bursts of fire that was more than half sorcerous in nature and were big enough to engulf a warship completely. The Thousand Sons' own vessels either remained outside the suns' sphere of motion or were guided into orbit by members of the Corvidae, their foresight guiding the ship through the dangers of the approach.

A vast space station, known as the _Gift of Thoth_ by its occupants, had been built to care for the ships outside the suns' protective sphere. Named after one of Prospero's ancient legends, the station was located at the exit of the only relatively reliable passage to the Planet of the Sorcerers, albeit it was only open most of the time and was still very difficult to navigate. Nearly a hundred kilometers in length, the _Gift of Thoth_ had been crafted by magi of the Dark Mechanicum working at the behest of Exalted Sorcerers, and was covered in gun platforms and other defenses. Its docks could welcome hundreds of ships at once, and the millions of hereteks and techno-thralls that lived there could repair and refit the vessels to the most exacting of standards – if the captain had the resources to trade or the influence to wield. The facilities could even build new ships, using sorcery to accelerate the construction dramatically, though the materials required to do so had to be brought aboard the station first. While other shipyards had been built in orbit of Sortiarus, none were as vast as the _Gift of Thoth._

While each of the dark magi was nominally in charge of his or her portion of the station, nine Silver Towers floated around it, each more than a kilometer long and home to an Exalted Sorcerer. The towers had been pulled out of the surface of Sortiarus, raised into the heavens like the primitive rockets of old, except with sorcery rather than fuel. Now they turned around the station, their base constantly pointed toward it, maintaining their own internal gravity without regard for the one fostered within the _Gift of Thoth._ The nine ascended sons of Magnus were the true lords of the station, their will strengthening the enchantements keeping the megastructure in one piece. The Crimson King himself had bestowed upon them the title of Ninefold Keepers, and they were to be the first line of defense of Sortiarus, using their power and that of their Towers against any who dared to attack the _Gift of Thoth._ Each Silver Tower held firepower comparable to that of a warship several time its size, and its master's powers were greatly increased while he stood within its walls.

Though only tasked with defending the station, the Keepers still held considerable influence, and many of the warbands from other Legions who had been brought to Sortiarus attempted to appeal to them for access to the facilities. On some occasions, those requests were granted, and the shipyards were rarely vacant for long. The enhancements of the Thousand Sons' hereteks had yet to be tested in battle, but captains and crewmembers alike on the ships who had received them reported significant improvements, along with an increase in the mystifying events that always occurred aboard ships in Eyespace – a trade-off most warlords were more than ready to make.

While the _Gift of Thoth_ was as much a fortress as it was a shipyard, it wasn't the only defense the Thousand Sons had raised above their daemonic homeworld. The space between the nine suns had been filled with traps and infernal guardians, constructs of the Dark Mechanicum shaped as the dragons of ancient legend and inhabited with the power of Neverborn summoned and bound by the sons of Magnus. Exalted Sorcerers who sought to study the tides of the Great Ocean had also unearthed their own Silver Towers, drifting near the border of the relatively stable region surrounding Sortiarus, created by Magnus' power. The Sorcerers who had once been their subordinates and were now their apprentices added their powers to this informal line of defense.

Despite all these defenses above the Planet of the Sorcerers, Magnus and his sons didn't forget to fortify the world itself. Once, on Prospero, they had relied on their orbital defenses to protect their planet and avoided marring the world's beauty with fortifications – but that was one of the many mistakes the Crimson King had vowed to learn from. Magnus' own desmene, the Tower of the Cyclops, could move at will across the entire planet, and many Exalted Sorcerers spent long months learning how to do the same – though none could do it as quickly and effortlessly as their Primarch. Fortresses had been raised in the shifting lands surrounding the cities, and Chaos Titans patrolled far and wide from these, occasionally destroying some gigantic beast spawned by Sortiarus' unstable Warp currents. The fortresses' walls were manned by Astartes and mortals from the warbands who had rallied to the banner of the Fifteenth Legion, given full autonomy as long as they watched the horizon and were ready to hold their ground against the enemy. Most of the Thousand Sons remained in the cities themselves, ready to use all of their sorcerous abilities to defend them.

Not all of the warbands the wandering sons of Magnus had brought with them had remained near Sortiarus. Some had left, drawn to other opportunities, or another leader had risen after the Sorcerer who had previously led them had left them for other duties on the Planet of the Sorcerers. By Magnus' decree, all who wished to depart were free to do so without harm – but should any remain and then turn on the Fifteenth Legion when their enemies attacked, the full wrath of the Primarch would fall upon them. Many had chosen to depart, but hundreds of ships not marked with the Fifteenth's emblem remained in the system. They had been spread under the command of several Thousand Sons flagships, their crews learning how to work together quickly, re-learning lessons that had once been drilled into all crews of the Great Crusade but that had been slowly forgotten since the Heresy.

Vessels from all Legions save the Death Guard were among this disparate host, along with warships from the Navy and troop transports from the auxiliary forces that had accompanied the Astartes in their rebellion against the Throne and then into their exile. Some had been sent patrolling the surrounding region of the Eye of Terror, and it was one such patrol that found Mortarion's armada first and rushed back to Sortiarus with such speed, they nearly arrived before their frantic telepathic warnings.

Mortarion, the Death Lord, Daemon Primarch of the Fourteenth Legion, had been roused from the Plague Planet by word of the Thousand Sons' rebirth. All of his life, Mortarion had despised witches, and at Nikaea he had spoken against the Thousand Sons with a vigor only the Wolves themselves, in all their self-righteous hypocrisy, had surpassed. Though the Thousand Sons saw the Death Guards as ignorant, there was at least some modicum of respect to them due to the fact that they practiced what they preached, their Primarch having disbanded the Legion's Librarius upon taking command. Not like the Rout, who believed that using a different name for their psykers gave their ridiculous claims of them being receptacles of some "blessing of Fenris' spirit" any credibility.

The reason why Mortarion had sided with Horus in the Heresy had been because he had thought the Emperor was not going far enough to control psykers – albeit many suspected there were other, less grand motives for his betrayal. When the Thousand Sons had joined the Warmaster near the end of the Heresy, the only reason the Death Lord hadn't turned on them right then had been that Horus wouldn't have allowed it – that, and the fact that by this point, he had already sold his Legion to the Father of Plagues, and his own body was the host of an infinity of pestilences with more in common with the daemons of the Garden of Nurgle than that of a living being. Yet still, his hatred had remained, now covered in a veneer of self-deceit and fuelled by the rivalry between his patron and the Dark God who claimed ownership over the Thousand Sons.

In the Eye of Terror, the Death Guard had mostly kept to themselves, their nature making it almost impossible for them to interact with the other factions that shared their refuge. Few of their number had survived the terrible events that had led to their Primarch's pact with Nurgle, but each of those was a formidable warrior, resilient beyond even the incredible limits of a Space Marine. But Mortarion had risen from his silent brooding, and the power of a Daemon Primarch reached far in the Eye of Terror. Dozens of wandering Plague Marines warbands had come to his call, though his once-favored son, Typhus, remained conspiciously absent, still fearing the wrath of his former master over the betrayal that had resulted in the Legion's current state.

Other followers of Nurgle had flocked to the Death Lord's raised banner. Infested Space Hulks filled with millions of diseased human cultists, Army Regiments corrupted by the promise of an end to their pain, Astartes from other Legions drawn by the lies of peace and acceptance whispered in their ears by the agents of the Grandfather. As more and more gathered near the Plague Planet, Mortarion's power drew in entire daemon legions, with some of greatest children of Nurgle bending knee before him and recognizing him as the one chosen by their god to lead this sacred crusade. These Neverborn armies arrived buried in the bellies of infested void-beasts, once-majestuous creatures that had been dragged into the Warp by Nurgle's cruel whim and turned into living carriers for his minions. Despite the rot spreading in their entrails, they yet lived, denied the release of death.

Before leaving, Mortarion called to him the mightiest of the daemons and Sorcerers among his followers, and led them into a grand ritual that brought forth a cloud of Warp-flies the size of a planet, in which the fleet could sail. Thus concealed, the Plague Fleet was impossible to detect by the Thousand Sons' divinations. If not for the patrols Magnus had insisted been sent, the Fifteenth Legion would have been caught by surprise. As it was, the ship carrying the message – a vessel that belonged to a Sixteenth Legion warband – arrived mere hours before the Plague Fleet. The armada of the Thousand Sons gathered around the _Gift of Thoth_ , ready to defend the passage to Sortiarus. At Magnus' call, the scattered Silver Towers joined the defense fleet, reinforced by new circles of Sorcerers teleported from the planet's surface.

The Thousand Sons couldn't let the Plague Fleet reach Sortiarus' orbit unhindered. If the millions of plague-ridden soldiers it held were allowed to make planetfall, then even if the forces of the Thousand Sons killed them all they would still inflict unimaginable damage to the world. Disease would sweep through the mortals gathered in the Thousand Sons' new empire, and other entropic forces would lay waste to their work. The mere presence of so many souls dedicated to the Lord of Decay would cause the balance of power to shift, and while Magnus' will would prevent Nurgle from claiming Sortiarus, the potential consequences of the Grandfather gaining even the slightest foothold on the Planet of the Sorcerers were too dire to contemplate.

As the army of Mortarion pierced through the storms surrounding Sortiarus, the Thousand Sons and those who fought under their banner were ready. From atop the Tower of the Cyclops, seeing all that transpired within his domain through his one eye, Magnus the Red roared in challenge to his brother. Twice now one of his own kin had come to his world, seeking the destruction of all he had built. But this time, he was not chained by regret, held back from unleashing his power by the shame of a most terrible crime. This time, the one attacking him couldn't pretend to even the slightest of honorable reasons for his onslaught. And this time, his sons stood with him, prepared to fight for the defense of all that they held dear against those who would cast it all to ruin.

' **Hear me,'** boomed the voice of the Crimson King, and all within the defense force did so. **'All of you who stand now with me, hear me. We are the defenders of knowledge, the heralds of a new age of illumination. This age will be long in coming, regardless of how well we fight here today – but make no mistake ! Our deeds today, in this battle, shall echo into eternity. Before us are arrayed the forces of decay, of ignorance, of willful abandon to the whims of the universe. But we stand in defiance of such forces ! We will not let ourselves become slaves to despair ! We shall claim the future as our own, and shape it according to** ** _our_** **desires,** ** _our_** **ideals ! The dream my sons returned to me, to** ** _us_** **, shall not be destroyed, and all those who stand in our way shall** ** _burn_** **in the fires of our power !'**

A ray of blinding blue light burst from the top of the Tower of the Cyclops, hitting one of the nine suns that was right above it. The star's surface flared with arcane patterns, and a cone of Warp-fire erupted from it, aimed right at the Plague Fleet. For a second, Mortarion's armada was bathed in sorcerous flames. When the fire faded, the cloak of Warp-flies that had surrounded the fleet was gone, burned away by Magnus' display of power. Many of the smaller vessels had also been scoured, their Geller Fields unable to resist the onslaught. They still floated in the void, their hulls glowing with heat, all air and flesh within utterly annihilated.

' **Come, brother !'** laughed Magnus. **'Come face the power of the Thousand Sons !'**

Aboard the _Endurance_ , Mortarion rose to his feet, having been knocked to the ground by Magnus' attack. The flames had failed to penetrate the shields of the venerable battle-barge, but it had still been rocked by the impact. Another ship would have been temporarily paralysed by damage to its systems after such a blow, but the _Endurance_ was blessed with the power of Nurgle, and was more living thing than machine now. Mortarion raised his scythe, _Silence_ , and spoke, his reply echoing through the minds of all his own followers and worming its way into those of Magnus' :

' **I am coming, Cyclops. Your world will fall. Your works will be nothing but ash.'**

At last the Plague Fleet met the Thousand Sons' armada, and the void battle began. Hundreds of vessels clashed in Sortiarus' heavens, barely visible from the surface between the glare of the nine suns. The Plague Fleet lacked the discipline and organization of the Thousand Sons, but their ships were more numerous, and took more punishment to destroy. The Exalted Sorcerers in their Silver Towers combined their power with that of the Ninefold Keepers, and rays of sorcerous energy blasted toward the foe, adding their firepower to that of the _Gift of Thoth_ and the rest of the fleet. Ships that were caught in these attacks were subjected to random effects, ranging from mere destruction to the sudden transformation of entiresections of hull into beautiful fractal sculpture of crystal – that were also ridiculously fragile, and shattered milliseconds after their appearance under the structural strains of the ships' outer layers.

The ships that had been refitted by the magi of the _Gift of Thoth_ unleashed their new weaponry to similar destructive effect, ripping ships apart. Several of the Space Hulks that flew ahead of the Plague Fleet were torn apart, but the individual fragments – each larger than most ships of the defensive fleet – continued to advance toward the station, tumbling end over end with uncontrolled momentum. Worse, they formed a barrier between the ships of the Thousand Sons and the rest of the Plague Fleet. Now Mortarion's plan was revealed – the pieces of the Space Hulks would act as a preliminary bombardment, ramming into the defensive fleet, and the rest of his ships would take advantage of the devastation to crush the defenders and seize the passage to Sortiarus.

But the Death Lord had underestimated Magnus' resolve. Once again the Crimson King reached out with his god-like power, and swatted aside the Space Hulks' fragments with telekinetic blows that could have cracked cities apart. From the Tower of the Cyclops, Magnus could call upon all of his power and more besides, drawing upon the energies of Sortiarus itself in defense of the world. Now Mortarion's fleet was exposed, and the onslaught of defensive fire resumed.

' **You are far from your center of power, brother,'** taunted Magnus, his voice for all to hear across the two fleets. **'What hope do you have of defeating me here, with all my sons to help me ?'**

' **Hope is for the weak,'** came Mortarion's grim reply. **'I deal only in certainty, bought with the lives of the unworthy. Witness the inevitable triumph of Nurgle !'**

At Mortarion's signal, cabals of witches spread across his forces enacted their rituals in unison, suffused with the power of the Daemon Primarch of the Death Guard. The Warp surged, and on almost every ship of the defensive fleet, thousands of daemons of Nurgle suddenly manifested, summoned from the Warp by the call of Mortarion, amplifed by the rituals and the sacrifice of the Space Hulks' crews. In the confusion that followed as the ships' crews fought to purge their vessels of daemonic infestation, the Plague Fleet advanced, sending thousands of drop-pods and troop carriers onto the _Gift of Thoth_. Most of those did not make it to the station, blasted to pieces by its defenses, but those who did still numbered in the hundreds. Small-scale battles began to rage across the station as individual warbands dedicated to Nurgle joined up with each other.

The spell cast by Mortarion's sorcerers had also sent ripples into the Warp that made teleportation impossible – several Sorcerers were lost in horrible ways before this was established. Magnus' own power was curtailed, as Mortarion now deployed his own shadow upon the Warp, obstructing the Crimson King's influence. In the moments it took for the Exalted Sorcerers to restore order among their fleet, several ships had passed the _Gift of Thoth_ by and had entered the passage to Sortiarus. Blissfully, the _Endurance_ had remained behind, forced into staying with the bulk of the fleet by the concentrated fire it faced every time it tried to advance further. Slowly, the space battle turned into a deadlock, and the Plague Fleet withdrew, forming a blockade around the space station while warriors of the Death Guard and the Thousand Sons still fought within it.

Of the ships who had managed to enter the passage, only half made it to the other side, the rest torn apart by traps and the gravitational pull of the nine suns. They vomited their cargo of troops onto the empty plains of Sortiarus, far from the cities and their rings of defensive fortresses. Magnus' rage at this desacration of his world was great, but he dared not rouse his planetary forces to attack, unwilling to leave his cities and libraries defenseless. With the passage of the _Gift of Thoth_ impossible to reach without another massed assault, Mortarion sent lone ships through the turbulent tides of the nine suns at other points. Few made it through, but those that did added their forces to those on the surface before being destroyed by the Thousand Sons ships that remained in orbit. Soon warlords gathered the forces of Nurgle on Sortiarus and led them on the offensive.

So began the siege of the Planet of the Sorcerers, a long and protracted conflict with two Daemon Primarchs opposing each other through their armies and infernal influence over the Warp.


	6. The Command of the Crimson King

' **Ahzek,'** said the image of the Crimson King. **'You must not return.'**

The avatar of Ahriman's gene-sire stood on the _Tlaloc's_ bridge, its brilliance blinding the crew. Only the sons of Magnus could look upon him without pain. At any other time, Ahriman would have marvelled at the power and hability required to project such an image across the Eye of Terror. But right now, all he felt was shock.

'Why, father ?' he asked, unable to keep the dismay from his voice. 'Do you not need my aid ? There are a hundred Sorcerers aboard this ship, almost a thousand battle-automatas, and four Exalted Sorcerers ! Surely such a force would be unvaluable in Sortiarus' defense !'

' **The** ** _Tlaloc_** **would never breach the blockade, and Mortarion's warp-dabblers have stirred the Great Ocean to the point that teleportation would be far too dangerous. Coming here as you are would be a death sentence, Ahriman.'**

'Even so, I ...'

' **Besides,'** cut the image of Magnus, **'your assistance is not required immediately. The forces of Mortarion are battling ours across the** ** _Gift of Thoth_** **and the Planet of the Sorcerers, but they are yet to make any significant headway. Your power is great, but not enough to turn the tides single-handedly. This is a siege, a battle of attrition. Unfortunately, those play right to the strength of our foe. The siege must be broken, and you, my son, are the only one in a position to do so … But you cannot do it with only the resources currently at your disposal.'**

Ahriman began to see what his father was alluding at, and he nodded slowly.

'You want me to rise an army. A coalition of warbands from outside the Legion.'

' **What I** ** _want_** **is irrelevant, Ahzek. What I** ** _need_** **, what the entire Legion needs, is for someone to break the siege. Find allies in the Eye, Ahzek. Gather them under your banner, as you have already proven you are capable. Once you are sure that you are ready, come to our aid. We will hold until then, have no fear. And when you arrive, we shall launch our own counter-attack, and together, crush Mortarion's slaves between our forces.'**

The face of Magnus' projection twisted in pain for a second, as if he were struggling against a great burden and his façade of control had momentarily slipped.

' **Contacting you like this, with all the wards Mortarion has cast around Sortiarus, is very taxing. I cannot do so much longer, not if I am to continue opposing the Lord of Death's efforts to undo all we have created here. Be swift, but be cautious, my sons ! There will be many who will seek to destroy you once they learn of your quest. Mortarion is but the most obvious of the powers arrayed against us, united in the pursuit of our dream's destruction !'**

The image faded, leaving Ahriman and his brothers staring where it had been in shocked silence. The face of Ahriman was pale and drawn, the exhaustion of speeding their journey with his powers finally catching up to him as he ceased his efforts. There were other reasons for his exhaustion, reasons that were tied with his motives for advocating such haste, and his blindness to the facts Magnus' projection had just explained to them. Khayon walked to Ahriman, and put a hand on his shoulder :

'You need rest, Ahriman. The rest of us will ensure this ship goes somewhere safe for the moment, and once you are recovered we can all discuss how to accomplish our father's command.'

'I can feel them dying, Iskandar,' whispered Ahriman, not looking at his brother. 'The Rubric, it has bound me to you all, and I can feel each of them dying, his soul trapped in the weaves of the spell we cast upon our Legion. Our brothers are dying, and I am not there.'

'You heard the Primarch,' said Khayon, more firmly this time. Try as he might, he couldn't supress a twinge of unease at seeing his brother in such a state. 'We wouldn't do any good there. Now _go_ , and once you are back to normal you will use this famed intellect of yours and devise a way out of this predicament.'

Ahriman nodded numbly, and left the bridge, Sanakht accompanying him. Khayon turned his thoughts to Ashur-Kai, who had observed the exchange in silence.

 _Our brother bears a great burden,_ he sent to his old mentor. _Greater than any of us realized._

 _Yes, but bearing it has made it strong. Did you feel how fast we moved through the Eye ? I have never seen the likes of it before. His power has grown to the point that the Sea of Souls itself bends to his needs. Such power_ cannot _come without a price. The question is : is the price one he will be able to pay without breaking ?_

 _It must be. We need Ahriman if we are to succeed in this mission. You, Sanakht or I could try to lead, I suppose, but he is the one whose name is known across the entire Eye of Terror. We took part in the Rubric, but he is the one whose name is attached to it, the one whose work has sent fear into the gods themselves._

 _If he is fated to live, then he will live_ , replied Ashur-Kai with the mental equivalent of a shrug. _If he is too weak, he will break and die. But I do not think he will die, Iskandar._

 _One of your visions ?_ Khayon's sending couldn't quite hide his skepticism. He had never believed in fate, had less trust in prophecies, and the Rubric had done nothing to change his mind.

 _Nothing so precise. Only an … intuition. He put too much of himself into the Rubric, Iskandar, whether he was aware of it or not. There are gaps in his soul now, filled with the power of the Great Ocean. And with the Rubric being in all of us now … I do not believe he_ can _die anymore. In fact, if what he said about the souls of our dead brothers on Sortiarus being caught in the Rubric's weave, it is possible that_ none _of us can truly die._

 _Being a soul without a body trapped inside a spell seems pretty dead to me, Ashur-Kai._

 _You lack imagination, Khayon. What is a body, but a receptacle of flesh and bone for a higher entity ? When Ahriman returns to us, we will need to speak to him about this. Perhaps the shades of our dead brothers could be picked out of the Rubric, and restored into new bodies. Think about it._

Khayon did exactly that. While the prospect of returning his brothers from the grave was appealing, he was uneasy as to what that would entail, and what the Thousand Sons might become if they were no longer bound by death. Despite Ashur-Kai's claims, he didn't lack imagination – his was just better suited at creating images of the worst possible scenario. But then again, if the alternative was the death of the Legion … By joining Ahriman's cabal, he had already proven how far he was willing to go to avoid _that_ particular future. Now matter how nightmarish the alternatives had the potential to be, he would choose the path with _some_ hope over the one with none at all.


	7. A Path Chosen

In the end, it only took Ahriman a few hours to recover, and when he emerged from his quarters he once more appeared in full possession of his wits, his aura flaring in answer to his thoughts. He called the other Exalted Sorcerers to him in the _Tlaloc'_ s strategium, and Khayon took the liberty of bringing with him two of his closest brothers among the Sorcerers, Mekhari and Djedhor. Once mere battle-brothers without much in the way of psychic ability, the Rubric had allowed Khayon to take them as personal apprentices, and they had learned quickly. Yet their years as individual without any psychic power to speak of would perhaps grant them some fresh perspective that the gathering could use – and even if that wasn't the case, they could always learn from it. No matter the situation, Khayon reflected, the sons of Magnus were always teachers and students at once.

And none were a greater teacher than Ahriman, who stared at the map being projected from the central hololith of the chamber, his helmet removed and held under his arm, his staff standing straight at his side, kept in balance by a subconscious use of telekine power. Attached to his belt by a silver chain was the book Lorgar had given to him, the Necroteuch. Khayon was curious about it – and also, if he was honest with himself, more than a little worried. Sorcerous grimoires usually displayed their nature for all to see, the infernal knowledge they contained being too much for any physical medium to bear. Screaming faces appeared on covers, fleshy mutations formed, teeth tried to bit off fingers as they turned pages, that sort of thing. But the Necroteuch looked entirely mundane to the physical eye, its corruption only revealed when gazed upon with a psychic gaze. That spoke of either a malevolent intellect seeking to cloak its true nature to lure fools to their doom, or incredible bindings laid upon it by its creators.

The map of the Eye of Terror was far from being complete – as far as Khayon knew, no such thing existed nor could exist – but it listed the known regions of interest and their relative nearness to their current position. Ashur-Kai had led the _Tlaloc_ to a lull in the storms, a place of tranquility that would only last for a few more hours before it collapsed and the fury of the Eye reasserted itself. The Geller Fields were still raised in case of that happening before they were ready to depart.

 _His mind is filled with thoughts of the world of the nine suns,_ came the thought-voice of Gyre. The daemonic wolf sat at Khayon's side, entirely too immobile to be natural. _Even now, he longs to make haste there, and join the battle, even in defiance of the Crimson King's will._

 _I understand him,_ Khayon sent back. _I feel the same. But Magnus is right, we can't do anything about the situation there. I do not fear dying for my Legion, but I don't want it to be in vain._

'Brothers,' said Ahriman, looking at each of the five other Thousand Sons in the room in turn. He did not appear surprised by Mekhari and Djedhor, who stood next to Khayon around the hololith. 'You are here. Good. You all know the command our Primarch bestowed upon us. It is a heavy duty, and one of great import. Sortiarus, and all our brothers there, depend on us. We must bring reinforcements to them, in strength great enough to break the siege laid down by Mortarion.'

'If the army brought by the Death Lord is strong enough to match our brothers and our Primarch,' pointed out Sanakht, 'then only something on the scale of another Legion will do the trick.'

'Perhaps not,' replied Khayon. 'All we really need to do is tip the scale in favor of our Legion. But without more intelligence on the exact situation, it's better to assume that to be the case.'

'Which leads us back to the question,' followed up Ahriman. 'Where do we begin ? The Eye of Terror is vast, and countless warbands vie for power and supremacy. The forces we have aboard the _Tlaloc_ are more powerful than most, but still inferior to many. We cannot simply wander around forcing those who cross our path to join us or die – we need a plan of action.'

'We have one obvious option' said Ashur-Kai. 'Ignis' embassy to Perturabo should still be out there, unless his journey was far quicker than predicted. If it went well, the Iron Warriors would certainly fit our need. But if contact did _not_ go well, going to Medrengard would be very dangerous. The sons of Perturabo would be even less welcoming to a Fifteenth Legion ship as they were before.'

'Then there are the Legions without a Primarch,' continued Sanakht. 'Both the Sons of Horus and the Night Lords lack a leader capable of really uniting them. The Sixteenth are less bad in this than the Eighth, but even they are fracturing since Abaddon's disappearance. Although I admit I have no idea how one could reforge the Eighth, after what the Ultramarines did to them on Tsalgualsa.'

'I have contacts in the Twelfth,' said Khayon. 'The World Eaters are divided, but the prospect of a good fight against the Death Guard could draw them in, especially if we offer them access to the weapons of the Legion. Many other Dark Mechanicum worlds would also be interested in an alliance with the Fifteenth Legion – we have many secrets to offer them. I know places where we could go to find such alliances.'

'The Dark Angels,' pointed out Mekhari. 'The Fallen of Caliban are not as numerous as other Legions, and they are far from united – but those who are in the Eye of Terror are without allies and with many enemies, and bereft of purpose with their homeworld destroyed. Our goal of building an empire within the Eye, a place of order and illumination, would be attractive to them.'

'As much as I don't like mentioning it,' said Djedhor, 'we must consider the Emperor's Children. Fulgrim is missing, but their Chief Apothecary has managed to hold a vast part of the Legion's remaining forces after Skalathrax. If we go to their new homeworld, Harmony, and make him an offer interesting enough, he would likely come to our aid.'

'Bile is a monster,' spat Sanakht. 'Allying ourselves with him would undermine everything our Legion stands for.'

'We have made some pretty big compromises already,' Ashur-Kai cynically pointed out. 'Let us not pretend our Legion does not put results ahead of ideals. The time for that is long past.'

'The choice is yours, Ahriman,' concluded Khayon, before the swordsman could take offense at his former mentor's words, uncomfortably true as they might be.

For several long moments, the Arch-Sorcerer stared at the hololith. Around him, Khayon could see psychic images flickering with insane speed as his mind walked the myriad paths open to them. After a few seconds, Ahriman closed his eyes, and Khayon sensed that now he wasn't merely imagining the possibilities – he was using his Corvidae powers to actually walk along them, drawing upon the knowledge of the Warp, seeing the most likely outcome of each choice. On the side, Khayon could feel Ashur-Kai observing the leader of the Corvidae with keen interest. The albino was among the most competent seers of the entire Legion, the increase in his power that had come with the Rubric having been almost exclusively focused in that area, but even he admitted he had still much to learn from one such as Ahriman. Perhaps the reason why the former First Captain had such ease peering into the possible futures was linked to the condition of his soul that Khayon and Ashur-Kai had discussed the day before.

Then, Ahriman straightened, his expression turning resolute. His decision had been made.

'Prepare for immediate Warp transit,' he declared. 'I know where we are going next.'


	8. Ruinous Alignment

Clad in furnace orange Terminator warplate, Ignis, Master of Ruin of the Fifteenth Legion, Exalted Sorcerer by the power of the Rubric and emissary of the Crimson King to the Lord of Iron, looked down onto the world Perturabo and his sons had claimed as their new homeworld in the Eye of Terror. As he took in the pollution clouds and the immense cities, his second sight watched the daemonworld's aura – a spectacle somehow even more hideous than the one he saw through his first sight. Billions of misery-filled lives teemed across its surface, enslaved to the will of masters who, when they were not cruel for the sake of spite, still saw their thralls as nothing but fodder for their machines of war, numbers in the equations of power and destruction. The very world reeked of the bitterness and cold rage of the Daemon Primarch who dwelled within its greatest stronghold, the aptly-named Fortress of Hate. Ignis wondered how any psyker could survive here for long – even from orbit, the wrathful thoughts of Perturabo were almost overwhelming. He assumed they either didn't, or found a way to ignore the background hatred of the Lord of Iron. Even then, it was impossible for there to be no long-term effect. He would need to find a way to study one of the Fourth Legion Sorcerers to find out.

Horrible as it might be, though, Medrengard was efficient – so very efficient. Its population and resources surpassed Sortiarus greatly, and the fleet and orbital defenses arrayed around it were far more elaborate and heavily armed that those around the Planet of the Sorcerers. Impossibly high spires reached up to orbit, warships tethered to them, and Ignis could sense the Iron Warriors within the towers. The human slaves of the Fourth Legion lived in complete accordance with their masters' carefully designed schedules, crafted to extract the maximal quantity of labor from every one of them until their death – and then, their corpses were used as material in a variety of ways. Nothing was wasted on Medrengard, and there was a certain elegance to it, though only one such as Ignis could appreciate it.

Ignis had not come to Medrengard in a mere ship. The Crimson King had offered him the pick of the fleet assembled at Sortiarus to choose the vessel that would carry his embassy to the Lord of Iron, but the Master of Ruin had rejected them all. In his opinion, the embassy had to convince Perturabo of the benefits of an alliance with the Thousand Sons. The Iron Warriors had their own Warp-smiths, and while they might lack some of the aetheric knowledge the Thousand Sons had granted to their tech-priests for the refitting of the fleet, they were still more than equals in skill. After great consideration, Ignis had instead chosen to come to Medrengard aboard his own Silver Tower, pulled from the Planet of the Sorcerers by his own will and guided through the tides of the Eye of Terror by the circle of Sorcerers he had brought with him.

Unlike Ahriman, Ignis had only taken a handful of his brothers with him, all members of the Order of Ruin. Perturabo would not be impressed by ranks of warriors – he had plenty of those himself. And should he take the arrival of Magnus' emissary as a threat … The Thousand Sons could ill-afford to cause another Legion to take up arms against them. He _had_ brought some of his mortal servants with him, though, adepts of the Dark Mechanicum who had come to the Planet of the Sorcerers and dedicated themselves to the Order of Ruin in return for the chance to build the engines of destruction their masters would use. Some Thrall Wizards, too, human psykers and magus who had learned some of the Art on their own, and come to the Thousand Sons in the hope of gaining greater power. All they gained from joining the Order of Ruin's servants was hard work and access to some of the Legion's lesser tomes, but it was apparently worth it for many. Ignis didn't really care, so long as they did their job, which consisted in maintaining the Silver Tower's defenses and many ritual circles.

All in all, the Silver Tower housed around five hundred souls, only nine of those Astartes, and all of those newly inducted members of the Order of Ruin. Despite his desire to not needlessly antagonize the Iron Warriors, Ignis wasn't foolish enough to come to the homeworld of the Fourth Legion unprepared for battle. The Sorcerers alone would be more than a match for an entire Company of non-psychic Astartes, and the defenses of the Silver Tower would make any attempt at boarding it extremely costly. Furthermore, even if, by some miracle, the sons of Perturabo managed to seize it, the Silver Tower would cease to exist as soon as Ignis died and no other Exalted Sorcerer picked up the psychic burden of fuelling its existence. How long it would take for the sorcerous building to dissolve, Ignis did not know – he hadn't had time to experiment severing his bond with the Tower, and to his knoledge, none of his brothers had died since the Rubric had been cast. But he was gambling that the Silver Tower would raise curiosity without inciting too much greed.

Gambling. He wasn't familiar with the concept – as Master of Ruin, his was the path of planified actions and predicted consequences, the consideration of patterns invisible to lesser minds and their application the destruction of his Legion's enemies. He was a destroyer of chance, reducing all the chaos of a battlefield to known variables and using the formules of his Order to foresee their inevitable result. Ahriman had delivered salvation to the Legion through a gamble of truly monstrous proportions, and the fact that it had succeeded was the only reason Magnus hadn't punished him for his repeated refusal to heed the Primarch's warnings against the dangers of such a course. Had the Rubric of Ahriman failed, Ignis couldn't imagine what punishment the Crimson King would have unleashed upon the First Captain and all of his followers. Gambling was fundamentally opposed to Ignis' very nature, yet he understood why it was necessary here.

The Thousand Sons couldn't stand alone against the rest of the Eye of Terror. The calculations that led to that conclusion were appalingly simple. No matter how powerful each son of Magnus was, no matter how cunningly they were deployed, no matter how smartly they schemed, they would be destroyed under sheer strength of number, a most inelegant end to the Fifteenth's great legacy. The answer was equally simple, if its details infinitely more complex. The Thousand Sons needed allies.

Ahriman could go to Lorgar and try to sway the fanatics of the Seventeenth to their side. In Ignis' opinion, the Word Bearers were too erratic, enslaved to the corrupted patterns of their so-called Dark Gods. They could not be relied upon, safe for the spreading of misery and corruption. The Iron Warriors, now there was a Legion Ignis could admire. They understood the patterns of Ruin as well as it was possible for those lacking the gifts of the Fifteenth, and their Primarch surpassed even the Master of Ruin himself. Ignis had studied many of Perturabo's works, reading battle-reports from the Fourth Legion's archives and even psychically re-living the memories of soldiers who had fought at their side to get a better picture of some key battles. The Lord of Iron's mastery over Ruin and how to inflict it was awe-inspiring. Ignis knew this admiration was part of the reason why the Crimson King had chosen him to carry his message to Perturabo. Mere flattery wouldn't sway a Primarch – but sincere admiration could hardly hurt their case.

'I am Ignis,' he said over an open vox-channel, 'Master of Ruin of the Thousand Sons. I come at the behest of my sire, the Crimson King. He has tasked me with bringing a message to his esteemed brother, Perturabo, Lord of Iron of the Fourth Legion.'

It took several moments for an answer to came, during which Ignis listened in on crypted exchanges in Olympian, many of them harsh and aggressive. He suspected the Iron Warriors were in disagreement over how to react to his arrival and announcement. Fortunately, if they decided to blast him out of the skies, his Silver Tower was still close enough to the edge of the system to vanish before they could kill him.

' _Ignis,'_ came the reply at last. _'I am Captain Kyomodor Forrix. I don't know if you will be able to talk with the Primarch, but my lord, the Warsmith, wishes to speak with you. Here are the coordinates of a landing plateform, if you accept his demand – which I strongly advise you too. There are not many on Medrengard who will take kindly to an outsider's presence, even one sent by another Primarch.'_

'My thanks, Captain Forrix,' said Ignis, considering his options with all the speed granted by his training and coming to a conclusion. He knew the name of Forrix, of course. The warrior had been one of the Triarchs, the three Iron Warriors who advised the Lord of Iron and acted as his seconds. 'I accept your lord's proposal.'

A few hours later, Ignis descended from a great avian construct that, at some point, had been a Thunderhawk, but had been heavily altered by the mutagenous energies of Sortiarus. He came without his brothers, with only a single battle-automata as escort. The coordinates had brought him to a circular platform atop a tower rising high above one of the planet's most massive fortresses. Even as he set foot upon it, more than three kilometers above ground level, Ignis sensed the presence of something buried deep beneath the keep, something of great power whose mere aura disturbed his own powers. He could still call upon the energies of the Great Ocean, but a quick look at the fortress with his second sight revealed that it was warded against all but the most potent sorcerous assault – a wise precaution in the Eye of Terror, but one that only increased his curiosity for the whole endeavour.

A squad of ten warriors in Terminator armour waited for him on a square section of the platform that was clearly designed to function as an elevator of sort.

'Captain Forrix ?' Ignis called to the leader of the group, recognizing him from the files he had read about the Fourth. The massive champion nodded.

'Welcome to Khalan-Ghol, Lord Ignis,' replied the Captain. 'The Warsmith is waiting for you.'

They descended deeper into Khalan-Ghol, the Iron Warriors behaving as much like an honor guard as an escort for a prisoner. Following Forrix, Ignis was brought in vast domed audience chamber, guarded by several ranks of Iron Warriors. Ignis clinically recognized it as a gesture meant to honor him – there was no need of so many warriors merely to watch him for treachery. But the figure sitting at the end of the hall, sat upon a throne of black metal incrusted with emblems of the Fourth Legion and infernal sigils, soon drew all of his attention.

Dark power radiated from the enthroned warlord. His entire body was covered by a set of power armor, but despite it not being of the Cataphractii variety, his size still surpassed that of all others in the room, even seated. In some ways, the power contained within this still-mortal warrior was greater than that Ignis could still sense beneath the fortress. Here was a lord who walked the Path to Glory, yet his soul was unmarked by any of the four main powers of the Warp. Instead, to Ignis' surprise, it looked as if he were a vessel for the power of Ruin itself, the incarnation of the destructive aspect of the Great Ocean. That was unexpected. Lorgar and Perturabo had both risen to daemonhood without being dedicated to one specific Dark God – Ignis wasn't foolish enough to deny that his own gene-sire had, willingly or not, aligned himself with the Changer of Ways. But all others who had obtained that dubious honor had done so by gaining the favor of a single power.

On the left of the seated figure stood a bare-headed warrior, soon joined by Forrix who took his place on the right. Ignis recognized this warrior too from the Thousand Sons' archives.

'Forrix and Kroeger,' noted Ignis out loud, 'Captains of Grand Battalions and members of the Trident.' He turned his gaze toward the seated warlord. 'Would that make you Barban Falk, then ?'

There was a ripple of unease among the gathered Iron Warriors, and Forrix' expression went tense.

'That was once my name, but no more. Now I am simply the Warsmith.'

'As you wish,' agreed Ignis, uncaring of what the warlord wished to be called. 'I assume you are aware of the reason for my presence on Medrengard.'

'I am. You desire to speak with Perturabo, to give him a message from Magnus the Red. What is that message, that I should allow you to even present it to the Lord of Iron ?'

This required diplomacy and tact, Ignis knew. The message wasn't for Perturabo's lackeys, however powerful they might be, but for the Primarch himself. Yet Magnus hadn't asked for secrecy, and should the alliance come to pass, keeping the nature of his message hidden made no sense – and if it did not, well, Ignis would likely be too busy being dead at the Lord of Iron's hands to care. Besides, surrounded as he was, with only Credence at his side, refusing to answer the Warsmith's question struck him as a singularly bad idea.

'The Crimson King sends his greetings to his brother, and asks that the old alliances between our Legions be renewed,' Ignis declared. 'The Thousand Sons have been brought back from the brink of extinction, and now Magnus the Red seeks to lead them into the creation of a new empire, here in the Eye of Terror. An empire of illumination and truth, where the Imperium is built on the lies of the False Emperor, and one of strength, where the Imperium is fraught with weakness. Magnus asks that Perturabo joins him in this endeavour, that the future of all Mankind might be preserved once the Imperium inevitably collapses, and shaped by those with the will and power to do so.'

'I have heard of the Rubric,' said the Warsmith, 'and the renewal of power it has brought to the sons of Magnus. Even now, I can sense your own power, greater than what I would have expected. An alliance with your Legion would be … interesting. At the very least, it would give us other enemies to fight, rather than linger in our fortresses and wage war upon one another for the slightest of grudges. But it is not for me to decide – that power lies with Perturabo alone. And the Lord of Iron remains within his fortress, beyond the reach of any of us.'

'Access to the Fortress of Hate is restricted,' explained Forrix. 'Once, we of the Trident could enter, though we were careful not to waste our Primarch's time on trivial matter. We alone had the access codes. But in recent years, we have been cut off from the Fortress by our rivals in the Legion. Other Warsmiths have seized the territory surrounding it, and no one has been able to enter the Fortress of Hate since. In their pettiness, they deny us all the presence of our gene-sire, all because they are jealous of the favor he showed us during the Great Crusade and the Heresy.'

'Without us, you won't be able to enter the Fortress,' continued Kroeger, a wild smile suddenly appearing on his face as he, too, understood where his comrades were leading with this. 'And I doubt Berrossus and Toramino would let you try it anyway.'

'I do not have the resources to fight my way through them,' said Ignis, playing along. 'But with your help, that would be a very different matter.'

From atop his throne, the Warsmith laughed, the sound echoing across the hall in unnatural ways until it seemed they were all surrounded by a chorus of the damned. He rose, and his shadow seemed to swell, darkening the room even further.

'Then we are in agreement. Return to your tower, Ignis, and prepare for war. Soon, the warriors of Khalan-Ghol and the Thousand Sons shall march to battle together, and show the Lord of Iron the strength of the alliance you offer !'


	9. Iron and Fire

The host marshalled upon the plains of Medrengard. The numbers of warriors and tanks pouring out of Khalan-Ghol impressed Ignis – the Warsmith had more Astartes under his command than the entire Fifteenth Legion. Of course, even the least talented Sorcerer was a match for a dozen of Perturabo's sons, but it was still an impressive sight. Not since the Siege of Terra had the Master of Ruin seen so many Legionaries marching to war. Their formation was perfect, with the heavy armor leading the way. By his count, the Warsmith had brought more than five hundred tanks of various classes and around ten thousand Astartes. Forrix, acting as the liason between the Thousand Sons and their Iron Warriors allies, had told Ignis that, if they had more time, they would have been able to call upon their allies in the Titan Legions. But those were fighting other battles elsewhere in the Eye, for other warbands or for their own gain and pleasure, the Iron Warrior did not know. In any case, the massive daemon engines that crawled from Khalan-Ghol's depths should more than make up for the lack of Titans, and if the fortress of the warsmiths Berrossus and Toramino proved more resilient than expected, well, Ignis and his own forces would take care of it.

After asking permission from his allies, the Master of Ruin had brought his Silver Tower down on Medrengard, using an orbital descent secured by the Warsmith's fleet. The giant construction floated above the gathered army, the Iron Warriors giving it a wide berth – they might trust in the powers of the Sorcerers within, but still weren't keen on standing directly beneath it. From atop the Tower, Ignis had an unequaled view of the field, and was fully aware of just what an irresistible target the whole thing was to enemy artillery. Soon they would reach the territory of their foes, and Ignis would have the opportunity to field-test the psychic shields and other sorcerous defenses he and his minions had painstakingly installed. The hundreds of mortals in the Tower were preparing for battle. Thrall Wizards gathered around rune circles, while hereteks manned the more conventional weapons – though nothing in a Silver Tower could really be called _conventional._

Most of the brute work of loading the guns was done by Tzaangors, whose blood had been heated by the prospect of battle. Their excited cackling echoed across the Tower, all the way up to the open plateau upon which Ignis stood, seemingly exposed to both the elements and enemy fire, Credence at his side. The sound made his skin crawl – like him, the Tzaangors took pleasure in destruction, but unlike him, it wasn't because they saw the beauty in the precise applications of force that led to it. No, they were little more than the beasts with whom they shared so much of their genetic code – they revelled in destruction for its own sake. Their cunning and greed for arcane trinkets and weapons were but paper-thin masks laid upon their true nature.

 _Are you prepared ?_ He sent to his brothers, spread across the height of the Tower, each telepathically linked to the defenses of his section of the flying fortress. Nine pulses of confirmation were sent back in reply.

 _Remember,_ he continued, _this is about more than victory. Perturabo is watching from within the Fortress of Hate. We must not just win, we must win in a way fit to impress a Primarch._

Another pulse of agreement, this time edged with anticipation. All members of the Order of Ruin shared Ignis' admiration for the Lord of Iron, and a chance to practice their art under the eye of a master was something no one would ever pass up. After another mental inspection of the aetheric currents within the Silver Tower, Ignis directed his attention outward, to the fortifications growing on the horizon. The enemy had known about their coming attack as soon as they had marched out of Khalan-Ghol, and possibly earlier than that – Forrix had been surprisingly sanguine about admitting to the likelyhood of spies within the Warsmith's Grand Battalions. It seemed that such things were common practice on Medrengard, with the traitors expecting rewards if their patron should ever triumph, while prepared to actually resume their loyalty to their apparent master if the balance of power clearly shifted. Such division within a Legion made Ignis uneasy, yet he suspected the hand of Perturabo in the seeming codification that existed in conflicts between Iron Warriors. It would certainly be like the Lord of Iron to arrange for his sons to test their mettle against one another in a manner that still allowed for them all to rally under his banner, should he ever emerge from his lair.

The fortress that blocked their path to Perturabo's domain was huge, and crowned by a great tower reaching up to orbit like a single claw of some terrific hand. There dwelled the armies of the two warsmiths who were the main rivals of the faction with which Ignis had allied himself. He had been surprised to hear of Berrossus and Toramino's alliance – it seemed unlikely that two individuals as prideful as the warsmiths of the Fourth Legion could collaborate without an overwhelming presence such as that of Khalan-Ghol's master being in charge. Forrix had explained that the alliance was a legacy of the Horus Heresy, when Berrossus had almost been killed by the Lord of Iron and entombed into a Dreadnought. As his mind slipped further and further into the confusion that took most Dreadnoughts in the Nine Legions, Toramino had more or less usurped command of his Grand Battalion. Berrossus was still technically the leader of his forces, but he led from the front, more a sentient, hate-filled engine of destruction than a true warlord.

The fortress didn't have the same protections against sorcery as Khalan-Ghol – all Ignis could detect were blood sigils crafted upon the stones, capable of turning aside the assaults of lesser practicionners, but no match for the power of a true Sorcerer. According to Forrix, the old fortress of their enemies had much stronger protections, but this was a relatively new stronghold, raised after the defeat that had forced the members of the Trident to abandon the territory surrounding the Fortress of Hate and return to Khalan-Ghol. It might be possible to build a fortress overnight in the Eye of Terror by using the shifting nature of all daemon worlds, but the Iron Warriors preferred to build theirs the old-fashioned way, only taking advantage of the impossible physics of the Eye to make their creations even more impregnable. As a result, though, Fourth Legion's redoubts wouldn't collapse with the death of their master, as it was all too probable a Silver Tower would. Or at least most wouldn't – Ignis was so sure about Khalan-Ghol. The thing bound there was potent, and he suspected that the Warsmith's growing power was linked to the chains that held it – in which case, should he fail, the consequences for the fortress would be dire.

The army stopped at some distance from the walls, and the Iron Warriors began to dig trenches and raise barracks. Transports were emptied, then arranged into makeshift fortifications. The sons of Perturabo wouldn't launch an assault on the walls without a solid position to fall back to, and knew the effective range of the fortress' guns from previous attacks. The ground between fortress and besieging army bore the traces of these failed attempts : while all the corpses and wrecks had been reclaimed for recycling in one way or another, craters still dotted the desolate landscape. Inside the Silver Tower, Ignis' minions chaffed at the delay, but the Exalted Sorcerer exerted his will upon them, commanding them to obediently wait until their allies were ready.

' _Ignis,'_ came the contact from Forrix after only half an hour, during which the Warsmith's forces had built an impressive camp, with several layers of defensive positions. _'We are ready. Would you care to take the first shot ?'_

'With pleasure,' replied Ignis truthfully.

The Master of Ruin looked at the entire battlefield, his mind processing every detail, from the position of the Warsmith's daemon engines and Astartes squad to the angle of the fortress' walls. An equation formed into his mind, to which he added the firepower of the Silver Tower, his knowledge of Fourth Legion's breach tactics, and the aetheric currents of Medrengard. Then he solved the equation, obtaining the perfect location for the first strike. He raised his hands, and called upon the awesome power of the Silver Tower, drawing it through himself and letting it loose.

A blow of azure light burst forth from the Tower's top, broader than a Land Raider and bright enough to blind unshielded mortal eyes. It struck the exact point of the wall Ignis had targeted, warding sigils flaring briefly before being completely overwhelmed by the greater power of the blast. The wall shattered under the impact, fragments the size of Rhinos flying in the air and landing in the courtyard behind that separated the wall from the bunker-like buildings that made up the rest of the fortress, crushing dozens of slaves and Iron Warriors. More importantly, the debris formed a ramp up to the battlement, and the Warsmith's forces immediately seized the opportunity.

The Iron Warriors were too disciplined for them to roar in approval, but Ignis could feel the exaltation mixed with dread of the forces arrayed beneath the Silver Tower as they witnessed the display of power. He vaguely sensed Kroeger's mind leading the charge, radiating rage and bloodlust, but his perception of the battlefield had greatly diminished after his attack. Wielding such power took its toll, and the Master of Ruin had been brought on his knees by the effort, his psychic powers nearly exhausted for the moment. The energies of the Silver Tower itself had also been severely depleted, and it would take several hours before it had drawn enough power from the Eye of Terror to fire another shot like this one. However, that didn't mean its part in the battle was over.

The nine Sorcerers had all felt the blast, having helped Ignis channel its power. As soon as the Silver Tower stopped trembling from the aftershock, they unleashed the full firepower of the Tower's defenses upon the fortress, covering the charging Iron Warriors. Along with the more conventional bombardment from the Warsmith's forces, sorcerous flames swept the battlements, and telekinetically-quickened shells passed over the walls and detonated within the fortress, releasing mutagenous energies that transformed the Iron Warriors' unfortunate thralls into mutated wrecks. Most of those died almost instantly, but those who did not spread great confusion as they tore their way through their erstwhile comrades before being put down by their Legionary overseers. Taking advantage of the panic, the Thrall Wizards reached out into the storms above, using summoning rituals to draw forth the Neverborn into the flesh of those in the fortress with even a modicum of latent psychic ability. The sudden death of dozens of individuals, their flesh bursting apart to reveal the horrors of the Warp, added to the chaos among the defenders.

Ignis had discussed the methods by which he and his forces could assist the Warsmith quite extensively with Forrix. The Iron Warriors had warned that his men would open fire upon the daemons as soon as their enemies, which hadn't bothered the Exalted Sorcerer. It was dubious that the Thrall Wizards would be able to properly control them anyway, given the circumstances of the summoning – better for the Legionaries to be careful and put them down once they had served their purpose. It wasn't as if there weren't an infinity of them eager to be called, after all. Medrengard was relatively free of daemonic infestations, as such things were counted in the Eye of Terror : there were few spontaneous manifestations, which was likely due to the lesser number of Sorcerers among the Fourth Legion coupled with the fact that most daemons were either destroyed or enslaved within an infernal engine. Ignis also suspected that the will of Perturabo had something to do with it – even now, with the Fortress of Hate kilometers away, he could sense the power of the Daemon Primarch looming over the battlefield like an observing god. During Horus' rebellion, Perturabo had put most of his trust in weapons, not sorcery, using psychic powers only near the end of the war and never with the same reckless abandon displayed by other Traitor Legions, like the Word Bearers. Ignis thought this was partially why Magnus wanted the Lord of Iron on his side – Perturabo understood the dangers of Warp-craft, but his Legion's daemon engines showed that he understood the unlimited potential it also offered.

As the outer wall fell to Kroeger's onslaught – Ignis could sense the death and destruction surrounding the warrior, and knew that, should he survive, his fate would inevitably lead him down the same path as Angron's Legion – the other Grand Battalions began to advance. Within minutes, the great adamantium doors of the wall – to the left of the breach Ignis' shot had opened – began to swing open, before stopping suddenly. Ignis frowned and opened a vox-channel :

'Forrix, the gates aren't opening. What is wrong ?'

' _There was a failsafe hidden in the mechanism,'_ came the reply. _'Toramino must have activated it from one of the towers – the explosion took an entire squad, and the entire structure is full of broken machinery.'_

'Keep your forces away from the gates,' commanded Ignis. 'We will take care of this.'

' _These gates are quite heavy,'_ noted the warsmith, his tone doubtful. _'Are you sure ...'_

'Yes,' cut Ignis, 'I am.'

Forrix sent his agreement, and Ignis immediately focused once more on the Silver Tower's inner workings, fusing his awareness with the aetheric circuits of his flying fortress. Immediately, it began to advance, leaving its position in the Iron Warriors' camp to go toward the gates. To allow for sorties, the gates opened outward, and the opening was still far too small for the Silver Tower to pass – or at least, that must have been what the enemy warsmiths must have believed. Ignis pushed the Tower forward without slowing as it approached the gap, and at the last moment before impact he called once more upon the transdimensional nature of the stuff that made up the Silver Tower.

For a fraction of a second, everyone within the Tower experienced the quite disorientating sensation of being two-dimensional, before the reality to which they were used to reasserted itself. But by that point, the Silver Tower had already flown through the gap and was in the fortress' courtyard. On his plateform, Ignis turned back to the gates, drawing upon the power of his acolytes once more while the Thrall Wizards and Tzaangor crews let loose their fury upon the exposed defenders, guided by the Sorcerers to make sure they didn't accidentally fire upon their allies.

Thinking to himself that this would be much easier to do now than it would have been from the other side – massive applications of telekine power were made exponentially more difficult by even the simpler applications of subtlety – Ignis began to push at the gates with all the might he could muster. The mechanisms in the two towers siding the gates had been there to provide the motive force to move them, but Toramino had been lax in not making sure the gates couldn't be opened at all once his failsafe triggered. Slowly, meter by meter, the gates swung open, allowing for the full host of the Warsmith to enter the courtyard. Now, the next phase of the battle could begin – a slow, vicious battle through the bunkers and towers of the fortress, with every meter paid for in blood. On the way here, Forrix had laid out the battle-plan to Ignis, who had been impressed by its complexity, as well as Forrix' complete thrust that his warriors would be able to carry it out to the letter.

With Kroeger and his men stopping to recover their wounded and regroup – the fury of the warriors temporarily sated by the carnage they had inflicted – Forrix's forces split in squads and began to advance, each toward their assigned objective and supporting the others. Within a few hours, the defenders were retreating, abandoning the fortress as Toramino and Berrossus gave the order to withdraw back to their original stronghold. Ignis heard oaths of vengeance being exchanged on open channels before the last transport fled, and, to his lack of surprise, his offering to blast the retreating enemies to oblivion with his now recharged Silver Tower was refused.

Now that victory had been achieved – although not without cost, as several hundred of the Warsmith's warriors could attest, their bodies lying on the ground awaiting gene-seed extraction – it was time for Ignis to go speak with the Daemon Primarch who sat in the Fortress of Hate.


	10. Lord of Iron

'You do realize,' said Ignis once he was face to face with his allies – the Warsmith, Forrix, and Kroeger – once more, 'that just because you let them live doesn't mean they will hesitate to attack you again ?'

'Of course we do,' replied Forrix. 'But if you succeed in your embassy to Perturabo, every Iron Warrior will be of use. Not even they would dare disobey a direct command from our lord.'

Ignis shrugged, not entirely convinced. It went against his instincts to allow any enemy to live, especially as the oaths the two retreating warsmiths had sworn had included promises of dreadful retribution exacted upon him for his part in their defeat. But Forrix was right. If things went well, it wasn't impossible that they would all end up fighting on the same side in the future. Of course, that would open a whole new can of worms – he doubted the Iron Warriors' loyalty to their Primarch extended to putting aside their grudges against one another entirely. He had heard stories about the private vendettas warsmiths had pursued against one another during the Great Crusade, a result of Perturabo's tendency to put his Legion to greater risk than others, forcing the officiers to compete for his favor as a way to avoid being send into the grinder of war. But saying these things out loud would hardly be diplomatic.

'It is your Legion,' he concluded instead, before looking up at the structure at which foot the four of them stood. 'So, this is the Fortress of Hate.'

Perturabo's lair lived up to its name. Not since the Imperial Palace had Ignis seen a planetary structure of that scale, and what the Fortress missed in sheer surface covered compared to the False Emperor's domain, it more than made up in height and defenses. The black sun of Medrengard was blocked, as was the entire sky on the side of the Fortress. Spikes rose from the battlements, upon which were set skulls and entire skeletons belonging to a wide array of species, from human to Eldar and including many Astartes remains. Ignis had seen a few physic-defying strongholds in the Eye of Terror, but none came close to the aura of menace Perturabo's diffused. Made entirely of metal, it radiated a psychic presence of pain and cold, cold rage, and a vacarm of grinding machinery emanated from it, loud enough to be heard through the thick walls.

'And you said the Lord of Iron is alone in there ?' asked the Master of Ruin. He couldn't sense anything within the fortress apart from its own aura and that of the Daemon Primarch, but these were so powerful, an entire army could have hidden in there and he wouldn't have been able to sense it until they were on him.

'Yes,' answered the Warsmith, his voice containing an edge of awe, 'and no. No Iron Warrior is within these walls, but Perturabo isn't alone. After all, a fortress is nothing without defenders. But those he now entrusts his protection too are … different. They aren't Legionaries, of that we are certain, but no one is quite sure what they are. Some say they are the natives of Medrengard, enslaved to the will of the Lord of Iron, while others think they are cybernetic constructs possessed by bound Neverborn.' At this, the Warsmith inclined his head toward Credence. Ignis didn't comment – let the Warsmith keep his misconceptions about the automaton, that was preferable to its true nature being unveiled.

'How long has it been since you, or any of your brothers, actually saw him ?' asked Ignis. The Warsmith shrugged.

'Years ? Decades ? Centuries ? Ask two warriors from different warbands and they will give you two different answers, if they keep track of the passage of time at all. What does it matter here ?'

'I suppose it does not. How do I get in here ?'

Instead of answering, the three members of the Trident walked toward the wall, defenses turning on them as they approached. Ignis prudently remained behind, observing with keen interest. The walls of the Fortress of Hate didn't have any opening that he could see, yet as the trio of Iron Warriors approached, the very metal of the wall began to shift, small holes opening in front of each of them. Together, they placed their right hand into the holes, and spoke something Ignis didn't quite hear over the vacarm of the Fortress, but caught enough of to recognize the Unbreakable Litany. _"From iron cometh strength, from strength cometh will, from will cometh faith, from faith cometh honor, from honor cometh iron."_ The rich smell of Astartes blood reached Ignis' nostrils through his helmet, but when they withdrew their hands, none of them bore any sign of injury.

In answer to this offering, the wall shifted again, and a tunnel large enough for a Land Raider to pass through and dark as the black holes that dotted the Eye of Terror and the galaxy beyond appeared. The Triarchs stepped away from it, and Forrix gestured toward the opening without a word. Taking his meaning, Ignis nodded, and entered the Fortress of Hate, Credence following closely behind. Fortunately, the automaton's sensory array had been enhanced by the tech-wrights of the _Gift of Thot_ , allowing it to navigate the warped corridor without its programming succumbing to the myriad of fatal algorithm errors that would have struck a lesser construct.

The trip through the Fortress of Hate was filled with all manner of strange noises, and Ignis focused on not letting his senses wander beyond the confines of his body. The presence of Perturabo still blanketed everything, but the sounds he could hear – and that his armor's systems failed to register – told him that they were surrounded by daemons, or creatures with enough daemon in them not to make any difference. Snarls, pained screams, and almost constant mocking laughter echoed from all directions, as did whispers that were either threatening Ignis with a terrible demise or promising him power beyond his wildest dreams if he would just come closer to them and stray off the straight path he was now walking. In comparison to the Neverborn infesting Sortiarus, these creatures were outright simple in their attempts to tempt him, but their presence still made the Master of Ruin uneasy. He had thought Medrengard free of daemons – now he realized they simply gathered here, in the Fortress of Hate, close to the Primarch, feeding on his power and emotions.

After some time (one thousand, three hundred and seventy-one beatings of Ignis' hearts, but less than a second according to his armor), Ignis emerged from the lightless tunnel and into a chamber that seemed to stretch endlessly in all direction, and was high enough to house an Imperator Titan.

Bright lights hovered in the empty space, surrounded by smaller spheres that orbited around them. At once Ignis recognized it as a miniature model of the galaxy, although he couldn't tell which part of it. There were thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of stars floating in the chamber, far closer to one another and to their orbiting planets than they should have been had the model been scale-accurate. This wasn't the entire Milky Way, of course, there were far too fewer stars for that, but try as he might Ignis did not recognize any of it. Even the rotation of the planets was far too fast, most of them completing their turn around their star in a matter of minutes, by his estimation.

And there, standing before the arrangement of planets and stars, was Perturabo himself. The last time Ignis had seen the Primarch had been during the Siege of Terra, and only through recordings. At that time, the Lord of Iron had still been as mortal as any Primarch could be said to be, but that had changed in the Battle of the Iron Cage. Now Perturabo was a Daemon Primarch, ascended to that exalted statut by the combined power of the four Dark Gods. How he had accomplished that feat, Ignis did not know – Ctesias had once told him that there was, to his knowledge, only one non-Primarch who had ever earned the favor of all Ruinous Powers and been risen by all of them. Undoubtedly there were others, but the fact that the old summoner knew of only one – and he had been very secretive about the circumstances that had led to that knowledge – was a clear sign of their rarety. According to Ctesias, the gods were jealous of their pawns, and only someone whose deeds in service of the Primordial Annihilator were great enough to please all four of them to the point none of them would want their service to end could hope for so grand a "gift".

Perturabo's physique had been much less altered by his ascension than the other Daemon Primarchs Ignis had seen, or heard descriptions of. Unlike Angron and his blood-stained wings, Fulgrim with his snake-like lower body, or even Magnus in his ever-changing aspect, Perturabo looked more or less as Ignis remembered him, only even taller and radiating the power of a demigod to an ever greater extent than he had before. He still wore his armor, now merged with his flesh, and held in his hand the hammer _Forgebreaker_ , given to him by Horus after the Isstvan Massacre. Warp-energy coursed through his array of cybernetic implants, infusing him with the primordial power of the Empyrean in such quantities that any lesser being would have been destroyed outright, save perhaps for a handful of Sorcerers in the Eye. Ignis himself didn't fancy his chances at holding back destruction for more than a few seconds, minutes at most.

Still facing the back of the Daemon Primarch, but not doubting that Perturabo knew he was here, Ignis knelt at a respective distance, and waited for the Lord of Iron to aknowledge his presence. Even though this wasn't his own Primarch, the gesture felt natural, _right_ , even. According to his armor's chronometer, it was only after exactly one hour that Perturabo finally spoke :

' **Why are you here ?'**

The Primarch's voice struck Ignis like a physical blow, and he had to struggle to remain on his feet. It boomed in his head with barely restrained psychic strength just as it shook his armor with its sheer volume. This was nothing like the true power of the Crimson King, however, and he recovered quickly. Rising to his feet – he would not deliver his father's message on his knees – Ignis cast his mind back to his last meeting with Magnus, in the Tower of the Cyclops, and said :

'The Crimson King sends you his regards. With the casting of the Rubric and our Legion's resurgence, he seeks allies to stand by his side, and help him create a kingdom of illumination and strength here, in the Eye of Terror, beyond the reach of the False Emperor's slaves. You, Lord Perturabo, were once among his closest brothers, before the unfair demands of the Great Crusade separated you. He asks that this friendship be rekindled, and that you stand at his side, and together resurrect the dream that was destroyed by the False Emperor's betrayal.'

For several long seconds, there was no reply. Then the light of the stars behind Perturabo seemed to grow dimmer, as if a shadow had fallen upon the room. The anger that constantly radiated from the Lord of Iron intensified, and, more alarmingly for Ignis, seemed to shift in focus, going from some distant slight to being directed at the Master of Ruin.

' **You would have us join your new empire,'** said Perturabo, **'to serve as its builders, as its guardians, while your Legion rules it. Do you really think me that foolish, sorcerer ? Do you really believe that, after all this time, I will kneel before another ?'**

Before Ignis could reply, the Daemon Primarch turned to face him. His face, crowned by a mane of cables that went from his armor directly into his skull, was contorted in anger.

' **We served the Emperor,'** hissed Perturabo, **'loyally and without question. And in return for our service, we were sent to death without glory, our deeds unremembered, our sacrifices unmourned. Then we served Horus, and while my brother showed more respect than the wretched creature I must call** _ **father**_ **, he too sought to control us and use us for his own ends ! No more, do you hear me, son of Magnus ?! I will not whore my Legion away for another's goals any longer ! The Iron Warriors walk their own path. We are** _ **free**_ **, now for the first time in our entire existence. My sons play their own games, and pursue their own ambitions. In the Eye of Terror and beyond, they carve their own domains, beholden to none but themselves. I will not join the Crimson King, and be relegated once more to playing second for another !'**

'Magnus doesn't want you as a servant, lord,' Ignis tried to explain, feeling a cold apprehension rise in him. 'He wants you to join him as an equal, an ally toward a common goal ...'

' **Lies !'** roared the Daemon Primarch, striding toward Ignis faster than his bulk had let the Master of Ruin believe was possible. The Primarch's left hand swiped around, slapping Credence out of the way like a grown man might a mouse. The construct crashed a few meters away, but before Ignis could see if more damage had been done Perturabo's hand closed on him, his grip broad enough to enclose his entire torso, while his thumb and index tightened around his throat.

' **Always lies, empty promises, as if they all think me a simpleton easy to manipulate. But I** ** _never_** **believed them, no matter what they thought. When the Emperor came to Olympia, I knew I had no choice but to follow Him, for I knew the consequence of defying His will. When Horus offered me to join him, promising that my Legion would have the glory the Emperor had denied us, I knew that even though the offer was earnest, his own thirst for command would make him lord over us. The Gods themselves could not deceive me to what they really were, and I took their gifts as the reward for proving my superiority over Dorn, without kneeling to any of them. Now,'** growled the Primarch, 'g **ive me one reason why I shouldn't kill you here and now.'**

'There is … another part to the message !' Ignis managed to force the words out. Perturabo cocked his head, the motion causing his mane of cables to sway, and eased the pressure on the Thousand Son's throat slightly. Speaking was still agony, but he didn't have a choice – he had to give the message he had kept hidden from the Warsmith, and pray for the best. He _really_ hated gambling. 'In return for your alliance, Magnus will help you return to Tallarn. Together, you will claim that which lies buried there, and turn it to the purpose you sought when you first came to that world !'

For several seconds, Perturabo simply glared at Ignis. The Master of Ruin had no idea what the message meant – Magnus hadn't explained it to him, simply said that it was an offer Perturabo would at least consider. All he could do now was hope that his Primarch had been correct in his assumption. Then Perturabo threw him away, and circled to face his grand observatory once more. Coughing, feeling his throat's muscles painfully start to relax, Ignis rose to his feet.

' **Your father is cruel, Ignis,'** said Perturabo, his voice calm and controlled once more, as if the murderous rage he had displayed seconds before had never happened. **'After so long, I had finally freed myself of the curse of hope … And now, he has cast it upon me once more.'**

Ignis said nothing, unwilling to risk angering the Lord of Iron again, and rather convinced he wouldn't survive if he did. After a few moments, Perturabo spoke again :

' **Sortiarus burns, sorcerer. Mortarion's armies lay siege to the Planet of the Sorcerers, and with each passing day more minions of the Plague God join the forces of my pestilent brother.'**

Ignis' blood ran cold at the casual pronouncement. Images of Prospero's destruction rose in his mind, unbidden, and he had to supress the urge to rush back outside and take off with the Silver Tower back to his Legion's new homeworld. Perturabo didn't appear to notice, and continued :

' **If I align myself with Magnus, his enemies will come here also. I will not expose Medrengard to save another Legion's homeworld. And yet … the poison your father offers me is, as ever, too tempting to resist.'**

The Daemon Primarch turned to face Ignis, looming over the Exalted Sorcerer. His face was completely expressionless, his aura too charged with chaotic energies for Ignis to read.

' **Medrengard will not lose its shield,'** he finally declared, **'but it is time for the Legion's Trident to be cast once more. Since the Warsmith was ready to help you fight his own brothers, he shall take his armies with you to the defense of your home. Once the siege of Sortiarus has been broken, I will expect another message from my brother, that we might … formalize our alliance. Tell him we shall discuss this further in person, not through messengers.'**

Ignis fell to his knees again, relief mixed with gratitude for Magnus' foresight and wisdom. Whatever was on Tallarn – and he resolved to investigate that matter as soon as possible – the Crimson Right had been right to think it would be too great a temptation for Perturabo to resist.

'My thanks, lord Perturabo. You shall not regret this, I swear it upon my honor and soul.'

A rumble that might have been a chuckle emanated from the Daemon Primarch's throat.

' **We shall see. Leave, Ignis. Take the Trident with you, but you should not return to Sortiarus immediately. Even the Warsmith's forces will not be enough to turn the tides on their own.'**

The gaze of the Lord of Iron turned upward, and he stared at something Ignis couldn't see amidst the turning stars of the galactic map.

' **Find Ahriman, first. Your brother has been tasked by Magnus with gathering an army to break the siege – he will make good use of my warriors' talents, of that I have no doubt.'**

With a final bow, Ignis left the Fortress of Hate, his mind focused on the new problems at hand. He had not dared ask Perturabo how he knew of Sortiarus coming under attack, or Ahriman's mission – Daemon Primarchs held powers even the greatest of Sorcerers could only guess at. But he had also failed to ask _where_ Ahriman could be found – he suspected Perturabo hadn't told him on purpose. Perhaps that was to test him, to see if he could find his brother without guidance. Or perhaps it was to force him to wander the Eye of Terror cluelessly in search of Ahriman's embassy to Lorgar, preventing his warriors from fighting at Sortiarus until the battle there was already decided, one way or the other. Regardless, his next course of action was the same. First, he needed to find the Warsmith and tell him of his Primarch's decree. Then, he needed to find out where Ahriman had gone after receiving his instructions, and do so by the time the fleet was ready for departure. The First Captain would know what to do about the siege of Sortiarus – and perhaps even know what laid on Tallarn that could be used to bribe a Daemon Primarch.

Behind him, Credence blurted a question in binaric. Its body was already healing from the damage inflicted upon it by Perturabo's blow, but it would still need a trip to the forges for the most grievous of its injuries. That the Lord of Iron had inflicted so much harm upon Ignis' creation with nothing more than slap was a reminder of the awesome might he possessed, just as the lingering pain in the Master of Ruin's throat.

'No,' replied Ignis with a sigh, supressing a wince at the pain speaking caused. ' _That_ was the easy part, if the most dangerous one. Now the real work begins.'


	11. Rings of Power

The Rings of Artek-Ker were renowned throughout the entire Eye of Terror. The reason for that fame was manyfold : they were one of the greatest domains of the Dark Mechanicum, one of the biggest ongoing conflicts within the Eye, and, for those who still retained the ability to appreciate such things, they were also incredibly beautiful to look upon. No one knew who had built the system-wide, ring-shaped constructs that turned around the blue singularity at their center. Some claimed that it had been the Eldar, but others pointed out that even at their greatest, the children of Isha wouldn't have been able to build something that big. The smallest of the thirteen Rings, closest to the singularity, was still ten thousand kilometers in diameter, and the most exterior one more than a hundred thousand – although, like all things in the Eye of Terror, those dimensions varied depending on the time of the observation. Those who had embraced the powers of Chaos completely claimed that the Rings had been created by the Gods when this region of space had been subsumed by the Warp, while those who knew more about the galaxy's ancient past wondered if the Rings hadn't instead been the work of the mythical Old Ones, crafted for purposes unknown. If the latter were true, however, the Rings had long since been usurped by the Ruinous Powers.

Entire sections of the Rings had been altered by the power of the Warp, some becoming gaseous, others being turned into jungles, oceans, or other environments filled with deadly dangers. Even so, the Rings retained their integrity, continuing their slow turn around the singularity that shed its light upon all like a captive star. And upon each one, billions of tech-thralls and their Dark Mechanicum overlords toiled endlessly, creating ever-more deadly warmachines to take part in the unending feuds that opposed the different factions. Each Ring was dotted with hundreds of well-defended forge-cities, founded and ruled by members of the Dark Mechanicum. Alliances between these lords of the Eightfold Omnissiah were made and broken, sometimes within the same day, and legions who had fought to the death for a particular spot would fight side by side against a new common enemy, only to turn against one another again the moment one of their masters decided the inconvenients of the alliance outweighed its benefits.

Mines went deep into the Rings' structure, extracting metals unseen in the rest of the galaxy so that they could be forged into weapons. Dark temples and unholy forges crafted all manners of weapons, some made by the thousand on production lines, other hand-crafted by infernal artisans. Gene-mills spat out a constant stream of fast-grown minions to turn into skitarii, and fortresses and orbital forts abounded, crowned with guns more at place on ships than on grounded fortifications. Possessed tanks and daemon engines emerged from their forges directly onto battlefields thousands of kilometers wide, and scavenging teams scoured these impossible vast regions, bringing their harvest back to their masters for recycling.

All factions sought the same thing : territory on the innermost Ring, in order to study the energy readouts of the singularity that had drawn the magi to the system in the first place. Legend (and the claims of many Neverborn) had it that cracking the secrets of the blue, miniature star would yield infinite power to the one who did so. Such rumors were plentiful in the Eye of Terror, and most only regarded them as the cruel deceptions they were – but there were always those who were willing to pursue any chance of power, and the resources of the Rings of Artek-Ker were worth fighting for in any case. Over the years, countless warbands had been drawn to the Rings, fighting for one faction or another in return for access to the technology of their patrons and the favor of the Gods. There was much profit to be had here, as one as you were careful and left before your luck ran out.

Indeed, luck was vital to survive in Artek-Ker, in away even more so than martial prowess. The Dark Mechanicum used all manner of experimental weaponry in its battles, some of which didn't work as intended, while the rest did – often to even more horrifying effect. Even just reaching the outermost Ring to take part in the fighting at all required an inordinate amount of fortune. Acutely aware that, due to the sheer number of factions fighting for the Rings, any reinforcement was unlikely to join their particular side, the dark magi of Artek-Ker had built thousands of deep-space stations at the edge of the Warp Storms surrounding the system. Incoming ships without the proper codes or a captain who could offer his services to whoever controlled the closest guns fast enough to satisfy (if the stations weren't under order to just kill any new arrival because their master didn't care for new allies at that particular time) would have to fight from the moment they emerged. Even then, navigating a path toward the Rings wasn't easy, centuries of relative time having left many minefields and other nasty surprises floating around, forgotten even by those who had installed them. And that, of course, was without taking the daemon swarms into account.

Just like the singularity drew dark magi, so did it also draw Neverborn, a fact that only increased the credibility of the outlandish rumors about the power it held. Minions of the Changer of Ways and the War God had taken an interest in the Rings, sending hosts directly onto the Rings to fight each other – and, in the case of the Blood God's legions, whatever Dark Mechanicum force happened to be nearby, while the hosts of Tzeentch tended to be more subtle, having even made pacts with some forge-cities on occasion. However, the endless fighting also spawned millions of lesser, unaligned daemons, specters of violence and terror that swam in the void searching for prey. These furies tended to congregate in flocks large enough to swarm an entire vessel, adding to the hazards of navigation in the system. Fortunately, the Dark Mechanicum regularily purged them, but by the very nature of the system, this infestation could never be completely wiped out.

The daemonic presence was more pronounced on the inner Rings, and the Thirteenth Ring, closest of all to the singularity, teemed with the Neverborn. Only a few places upon its surface were secure from the infernal legions, shielded by wards and sorcerous pacts of immense power that ensured that the immortal servants of the Dark Gods did not come close. It was for these few locations that the Dark Mechanicum fought in Artek-Ker, battling for territory ever deeper in the astronomical arrangement of the Rings. The Second Ring was the one where the most powerful lords of the system had their fortresses, safe from the Neverborn hordes of the first but close enough to compete for the research stations. Each day, thousands of soldiers were sent from the Second Ring to the First, by ships or arcane teleportation, in the hope of seizing one of the fortresses.

Most of these expeditions perished almost immediately, slain by the daemons, while others were crushed at the walls. Even successful capture was no true victory at all for the soldiers – only the best and most favored might be brought off the First Ring. Most would defend the keep they had secured from the minions of their master's rivals until they die, all so that a handful of trusted disciples might study the energy emanating from the singularity. There were almost as many rumors about what these hereteks had managed to accomplish already as there were about the power of the singularity – which, over the years, had been granted many names, such as the Azurean Well, the Eternal Light, and the Eye of Tchar, among countless others. Some thought they had built terrible weapons using its energy, while others were convinced that they had found nothing at all.

The _Tlaloc_ reached Artek-Ker almost three months after its hasty departure from Sicarius, and made no attempt to hide its arrival. Given the number of experimental auspex arrays being deployed in the system, trying to cloak the ship in even the most elaborate of sorcerous veils would have been a dubious proposition, whose failure would have turned those the Thousand Sons had come to recruit against them. Its shields were up, though, reinforced by the psychic efforts of a hundred Sorcerers weaving a kinetic barrier just beneath the one projected by the vessel's own generators. Just because the sons of Magnus had come to find allies didn't mean they were going to act as idiots and come unprepared for a fight.

'I am Ahzek Ahriman,' spoke the Arch-Sorcerer on an open vox-channel as soon as the _Tlaloc_ was clear of the storm. 'I have come to speak with the lord of the First Ring.'


	12. Ahriman's Gambit

Ahriman's declaration sent panic among the various factions of the Rings. Each of the Dark Mechanicum lords with estates upon the First Ring believed the message was intended for him or her, the possibility of having the Arch-Sorcerer of Tzeentch working for them blinding them with greed. Speculation was rife as to the reason behind his arrival. By now all had heard about the siege of Sortiarus, about the armies of the Plague God being mobilized throughout the Eye to crush the rising Thousand Sons. Warbands coming to obtain weapons had brought word of the war with them – some had even tried to convince the Dark Mechanicum to take part, but the dark magi of the Rings had little interest in the blessings of the God of Life and Death.

Given Ahriman's fanatical devotion to his Legion, it was supremely unlikely that he had abandoned it and chosen to walk his own path across the Eye of Terror, forsaking his oaths to his Primarch. Surely, he must have come seeking allies to go to the aid of his beleaguered homeworld. Within their fortresses they plotted and schemed, pondering how much they could ask from the Thousand Sons in return for their assistance, each lord dreaming of the absolute rule that could be his if he played his cards right.

Khayon sat upon his command throne on the bridge of the _Tlaloc_ , watching as the ship drew nearer to the Azurean Well. Ahriman stood to his right, Ashur-Kai and Sanakht a step behind him. Though the Arch-Sorcerer was in command of the warband, the ship was still Khayon's. Ahriman knew better than to try to take the _Tlaloc_ away from his brother. Savior of the Legion or not, Ahriman suspected Khayon would try to kill him without hesitation should he ever try to take his sister from him. Such loyalty was to be admired.

Through the occulus, the Arch-Sorcerer could see both the First and Second Rings, as well as the singularity beyond them. The warship was surrounded by hundreds of other craft gathered in armadas that held each other at bay. One shot would be all it would take for this to degenerate into a space battle the likes of which the Rings had rarely seen, Ahriman's plan shattered beyond any hope of recovery. Which was why the Sorcerers of the _Tlaloc_ were currently sending their spirit bodies outside the ship and across the fleet, subtly appeasing over-eager minds and preventing accidents they foresaw before they could happen. It was a psychic undertaking worthy of praise, only made possible by the fact that none of the Dark Mechanicum lords had ordered hostile action. But it wasn't perfect, and tension rose as the ship drew closer and closer to the Second Ring.

'We are getting more vox-hails,' said Khayon calmly. 'And they are getting more desperate in their demands that we set course toward specific domains.'

So far, Ahriman hadn't replied to any of the vox-hails, which the dark magi had interpreted as a clever ploy to avoid being targeted by their rivals until the _Tlaloc_ was close enough to their Second Ring's domain to be under their protection. To preserve that impression, Khayon had kept the ship on a direct course straight for the singularity.

'We will pass the Second Ring by in nineteen minutes,' continued Khayon. 'At that point, what our hosts will do is impossible to predict.'

Ahriman merely nodded in response. Khayon sighed.

'I hope you know what you are doing, Ahriman. This plan … I know we have run longer odds before, but it still feels dangerous to me.'

 _Do not worry,_ Ahriman sent to his brother. _All is going as planned._

Nineteen minutes later, exactly as Khayon had announced, the _Tlaloc_ passed across the Second Ring without turning toward any of the fortresses upon it. Almost immediately, a torrent of vox-hails erupted from the fleets arrayed around the ship, with open threats now being spoken in cold, mechanical voices. Alarms rung across the bridge as the ship's systems detected weapons being locked upon it. The crew – a melange of augmented humans and Sortiarus-born mutants – held to their station, their fear washing over the four Exalted Sorcerers.

 _Now,_ pulsed Ahriman to Ashur-Kai and Sanakht, and through them to the hundred Sorcerers dispersed across the _Tlaloc_.

As one, the sons of Magnus withdrew from their efforts to influence the minds of the Dark Mechanicum ship-masters, and channelled their power through the smaller circle of three that stood upon the bridge. Under Ahriman's leadership, Ashur-Kai and Sanakht weaved the sorcerous energies, ripping the very fabric of reality apart in a manner as precisely calculated as it was brutal. The chorus of alarms on the bridge intensified, and the occulus' display flickered. For a maddening second, all that could be seen through the reinforced window was pure, undiluted blackness – then the ship's prow was facing the surface of the Second Ring, still going at full speed.

On the other side of the Ring, the Dark Mechanicum fleets reacted to the sudden burst of Warp energy and the disappearance of the _Tlaloc_ in the only way they could. With the pacifying influence of the Thousand Sons removed, the vessels opened fire, flotillas tearing each other apart in a deluge of lance-fire and solid ammunition, while boarding parties were sent in pods or teleported through Warp-touched technology. Repressed agression bloomed in full strength, and soon the void battle raged with all the fury of any other war ever fought in the Eye of Terror.

The target of the Thousand Sons was now visible through the occulus, and auspex scans had been compiled by the Anamnesis to form a three-dimensional image that was projected on the bridge's main hololith. It was a vast fortress, made of concentric circular walls, all centered around the main lair of the Dark Mechanicum lord, a grand baroque cathedral filled with the blasphemous imagery of the Eightfold Omnissiah.

Around the _Tlaloc_ , orbital defenses were in disarray as psychic attacks wreaked havoc with both living and mechanical components, frying the brains of gunners and filling their auspexes with ghost readings. The ship finally ceased its approach, hanging barely twenty kilometers above the Ring's surface. Had the object beneath the _Tlaloc_ been a planet, no sorcery of the Thousand Sons could have prevented its fall, but the Ring's gravitic pull was much weaker than that of a conventional planetoid – at least once you left its surface, where it was as strong as Terra's own.

'Open fire,' commanded Khayon, and the weapons of the _Tlaloc_ roared in answer. The bridge deck shuddered as lance-fire burst forth from the warship, slamming directly into the grand forge-cathedral, piercing through its shields thanks to the sorcerous enhancements that had been brought to the _Tlaloc_ in the decks of the _Gift of Thot._

Ahriman watched as part of the cathedral collapsed, tearing away from its melting part and crashing onto the surroundings buildings. He felt the terror of those caught beneath the falling structure, their horror at their inevitable doom and their urge to flee. But even those who had been in reach of safety were unable to move, locked into their pre-established routines by the cybernetic implants through which they were enslaved to their overlord. Such slavery revulsed Ahriman. For a sentient being to be reduced to nothing more than a puppet – there were few greater crimes.

 _Brothers_ , the Arch-Sorcerer pulsed to every Legionary aboard the ship. _Prepare for planetfall._


	13. Ruined Lord

To the slight surprise of the Dark Mechanicum warlord, the Thousand Sons descended upon his fortress with gunships and drop-pods instead of ripping space apart and manifesting within his walls. After the sorcerous display that had displaced the entire ship, he had thought the wards set around his keep to prevent unauthorized teleportation wouldn't be able to stop the sons of Magnus the Red. Perhaps his wards were stronger than he thought, or perhaps the Thousand Sons did not want to risk losing even one of their number to aborted teleportation when they thought more reliable deployment methods would be sufficient to the task at hand. Whatever the truth, they would regret their arrogance. So vowed Ecellion Perroxicus, Arch-Heretek of Nizar Gamma, lord of the Forty-Nine Principles of Dark Machinery.

His anti-air defenses were still in disarray from the blow to his forge-cathedral. Many had been outright destroyed by the impact, and the rest were impaired by the ground trembling too much for them to get a clear shot at the coming forces. Blind firing missed the targets completely – some sort of spell protected the drop-pods, and the Thunderhawks and Stormbirds dodged any onslaught with insulting ease. From his command center deep within the cathedral, Ecellion saw that he could not prevent Ahriman's army from landing, and so he focused his efforts on drawing as many of his own forces to the surface as possible. Thousands of skitarii and other constructs heeded his call, gathering around the damaged cathedral, ready to face the invaders. The outward fortifications were abandoned – a risk, but Ecellion judged it unlikely than one of his rivals would seize the opportunity. They would much rather let the Thousand Sons fight Ecellion, evaluating their martial capabilities and trying to guess at their actual goals before deciding onto a course of action.

Through their eyes, the Arch-Heretek saw the Thousand Sons land, scattered across the central courtyard. Astartes and battle-automatas emerged from their landing craft, opening fire immediately with weapons and sorcery. The sounds of battle filled the courtyard as two armies clashed.

'For the Legion and the Primarch !' shouted Khayon, leading a phalanx of automatas, Gyre at his side and Saern in his hand. 'Brothers ! Illuminate them !'

Ninety Sorcerers unleashed their power at his command, raining fire upon the Dark Mechanicum forces. Hundreds of skitarii died in the first seconds of the engagement, and then the Thousand Sons started to get creative. Cyborgs turned against their brethren as their command protocols were usurped, bound daemons were suddenly released as the wards containing them sputtered and failed, and the remaining flesh of subordinate hereteks twisted and mutated to create grotesque Chaos Spawns. As Ecellion brought in tanks and other heavy vehicles, the Thousand Sons ripped them apart with their minds while the battle-automatas defended their masters, directed by the overmind of the Anamnesis. Some of the constructs fell, and even a handful of Sorcerers were laid down by the defenders' concentrated fire, but soon they prevailed, and the inner courtyard was covered in the broken bodies of dead skitarii and the husks of ruined engines.

Khayon stood amongst his defeated foes, his armor covered in blood and oil, more of which dripped from his ax's blade. It had been a long time since he had taken part in a true battle – in fact, he had not fought for his life since his confrontation with Nirkalesh. The Exalted Sorcerer revelled in the conflict surrounding him, a sense of fulfilled purpose filling him to the brim. For all that the Thousand Sons were scholars, teachers and researchers of the aetheric matters, they were warriors first and foremost, created as such by the Emperor. All the changes that had come to the Fifteenth Legion since its creation on Terra hadn't altered that one thing – after all, no matter what other goals the Changer of Ways had in mind for them, he required warriors to fight in his eternal conflict against the other Dark Gods. There was a purity in battle, in the single-minded pursuit of assigned objectives, in the fighting side-by-side with trusted brothers, that nothing in the galaxy could match.

 _Ahriman_ , Khayon sent, breathing heavily and feeling the power he had called within him slowly dissipate, _we have taken the courtyard. But our enemy is gathering more troops to attack us._

He could sense them, massing in the underground nearby, waiting for their master's signal to launch their counter-attack. Thousands, tens of thousands, drawn from all corners of their lord's fortress, leaving entire sections of it undefended. His brothers could detect them too, and were already preparing, telekinetically moving wrecks to form improvised barricades and arranging the battle-automatas into defensive formations.

 _Good,_ came the reply from the Arch-Sorcerer. _Everything is proceeding as planned. I am going down myself. Hold their attention until I am done._

 _As you command, brother._

In the depths of the fortress, within an empty corridor that should have been guarded by a dozen battle-servitors, reality rippled. When the space-time anomaly resolved itself, Ahriman and Sanakht stood, their battle-plate flickering with the ghost-fire of the Warp. In the back of Ahriman's mind, he could still sense the link with Ashur-Kai, back on the _Tlaloc_ 's bridge, waiting for his signal to open the conduit again. Once, maintaining such a telepathic link with someone he didn't have a special bound to would have been harduous, even for him – but since the Rubric, not only had his powers increased, he had been able to link in that manner with any son of Magnus.

The corridor in which the two Exalted Sorcerers stood was dark, and led to a single reinforced door. From looking at it, it was clear the door wasn't meant to contain something inside, but to prevent unwanted access from the outside, both physical and psychic. Still, the wards, locks and adamantium reinforcing were no match for the power of the Exalted Sorcerers, and within a few seconds the door was torn out of its hinges, revealing a small circular space with a single person within. The room was filled with an harsh light coming from a single crystal in the ceiling.

The prisoner was little more than a torso. His legs were gone – he was held in the air by the two thick chains bound to the extremity of the ruined augmetics that had replaced his arms centuries ago. His body bore the marks of cybernetics having been ripped out, only the most vital being replaced with inferior equivalents that kept him alive, if not comfortable. Cranial enhancements had been removed, replaced with old cogitator units bounded with the remaining brain tissue, providing just enough processing power to emulate a complete human brain. Judging by the quality of his exposed artificial lungs, every breath must be agony to the captive, just like every other transplant must have burned his remaining old, decaying flesh with rejection. There was a cruel ingenuity to it all – the prisoner's situation had been carefully calculated to inflict pain without risking his death or descent into insanity. Had he not known the prisoner's nature, Ahriman would have been outraged.

As Ahriman entered the cell, the prisoner lifted his head, staring at the Legionary with cheap, faceted augmetic eyes that resembled nothing more than the eyes of a fly – if they had been black and cracked. The general impression the captive gave was so miserable that, if not for his psychic senses, the Arch-Sorcerer would have thought he had been mistaken all along. But he could see through the physical frailty of the prisoner, and into the incredibly complex and powerful mind trapped within, seething with cold rage and, as he saw Ahriman, a flicker of surprise, recognition and hope, quickly replaced by calculation. This was the individual Ahriman's visions had revealed to him as key to his goals, and though he had fallen far and had lost all of his power, a core of greatness remained within him, a seed of potential waiting to be nurtured into terrible bloom.

'Fabricator-General Kelbor-Hal,' said Ahriman, bowing his head slightly. 'We have come for you.'


	14. The Sealing of a Pact

In the years preceeding the civil war that the Imperium, in its typical self-aggrandizement, called the Horus Heresy, Kelbor-Hal had been the master of Mars, the supreme lord of the Mechanicum. He had been old when the Emperor had unified Terra, and knelt before the Master of Mankind when He had journeyed to the Red Planet and proclaimed Himself the Omnissiah, binding the tech-priests to His newborn empire. In the entire Imperium, the only beings with more authority and power than the Fabricator-General had been the Emperor, the Primarchs, and Malcador the Sigillite. When the Warmaster had turned, Kelbor-Hal had been lured to Horus' side by offerings of knowledge that the Emperor had declared forbidden. Soon after Isstvan had burned, Mars had been torn apart by a civil war that had lasted for most of the Heresy and left the Red Planet a ruin of its former glory, haunted by heretek horrors. By the time the war had come to the Sol system, with all Nine Legions finally gathering for the Siege of Terra, the Fabricator-General had become a terrifying tech-revenant, a creature of mutated flesh, twisted metal and warping energies, inhabited by technologies that had nearly destroyed Mankind.

To see what he had become now was a sobering reminder of how quickly and dramatically the fortunes of the mighty could change. Ahriman committed it to his memory, vowing that he would not forget that lesson. The Thousand Sons had been mighty before, all but unaissailable in their power – and then they had been brought down, all but destroyed by the Wolves and the flesh-change. Now they were on the rise again, but all it would take was another twist of fate to bring them down once more. Lorgar's warning about the Great Game still lingered in his mind – once the situation at Sortiarus had been dealt with, he would need to work on that threat to the Legion.

'Last time we met was in the _Vengeful Spirit's_ strategium, just before the beginning of the Siege. Are you here to kill me then, First Captain Ahzek Ahriman ?' asked Kelbor-Hal, his voice barely more than a whisper, every word causing psychic ripples of pain to emanate from him as his vox-unit sparked and sent electrical shocks through his withered flesh. 'I don't remember ever doing anything to cause the Fifteenth Legion to hate me – but the again, I have forgotten so much ...'

'No,' replied Ahriman. 'I am not here to kill you – in fact, I am here to rescue you.'

'Really ?' Somehow, despite the monotone false voice of his vox-speaker, Kelbor-Hal managed to put sarcasm in his words. 'And what will you demand in return ?'

Ahriman nodded in appreciation of Kelbor-Hal's question. This was good – it showed that the former Fabricator-General still had his wits about him, even after everything that had happened to him. Despite his condition – both the pain he radiated, and the humiliation that boiled inside him – he hadn't jumped at the opportunity, promising anything in exchange for freedom.

'This is my offer, Kelbor-Hal, made in the name of the Fifteenth Legion. We will free you, repair you, and assist you into rebuilding your power base here in the Rings. After that, in return, you will devote your resources to aiding us break the siege of the Planet of the Sorcerers. Then, you and the Crimson King will forge an alliance, the details of which shall be discussed between the two of you. The Thousand Sons will need the support of the Dark Mechanicum to accomplish our goals.'

'Unifying the Dark Mechanicum is impossible,' pointed the chained Arch-heretek. 'The very truths that freed us from the shackles of the Cult also changed us into beings of free thought, unwilling to accept any authority but our own. Even during the rebellion, most forge-worlds that renounced the false Omnissiah did so because of those among their own adepts who saw the righteousness of Horus' rebellion and the lies of the Emperor. When we entered the Eye of Terror, I didn't even try to maintain cohesion between the various factions – I just kept what I could around me while the other fleets scattered through the Eye. I very much doubt any of them would accept my authority now, even without … _this_.' He gestured toward his own body with a small motion of his head.

'We don't need you to unify the entire Dark Mechanicum,' replied Ahriman,.'You are right : this would be impossible, and even if it weren't, it would be the work of centuries, while we only have months – years, if we are lucky. For now, we need only the Rings of Artek-Ker. The empire of illumination we seek to build shall grow in time, as more see the truth of our cause.'

' _Only_ the Rings ? You truly do not think small, First Captain,' mused Kelbor-Hal. 'And if I refuse ?'

'Then you will die,' said Ahriman without changing his tone, 'and we will select another dark magi to help rise to dominance over the factions of the Rings. I chose you because you were the most clever and powerful of the Dark Mechanicum once – I do not know how you came to your current statut, but I know you can still be great.'

'You do not know how I fell ?' Kelbor-Hal laughed, the repeated "ha-ha-ha" leaving his vox-speaker without any trace of the amusement Ahriman could feel in his mind. 'You, greatest of the Thousand Sons' seers ? I find that hard to believe.'

'There are no records of what became of you after the Siege,' replied Ahriman. 'All that is known is that you survived and came to the Eye of Terror, but I have met no one who had heard anything about your activities after that – not even rumors and hearsay. Even the Neverborn didn't seem to know what had become of you.'

'Yet you knew where to find me ? I find that difficult to believe. Ecellion betrayed me when I led the Dark Mechanicum to the Rings, along with many other of my disciples. He is the last of them now, of course – he killed all of his accomplices as part of the cover-up. When he came to interrogate me, he was quite talkative about it. Boastful, really. He used some kind of aetheric eraser to remove all traces of my presence in the Warp, or so he claimed. So again, how did you find me ?'

Under his helmet, Ahriman allowed himself a small smile that could be heard in his next words. He _was_ quite proud of how he had found out, after all, and rightfully so.

'I didn't look for you,' he explained. 'I walked the paths of my own potential futures, searching for anything that could serve my Legion, and I came upon a possibility of me finding you here, while waging war against Ecellion in service of one of his rivals. Your presence in the Warp might have been erased, but the shadow your existence cast upon the future of others is not so easily removed.'

'… I see. Very well. This is hardly an offer I can refuse, but I warn you : unifying the Rings will be difficult, if it can be done at all, especially quickly. Ecellion told me a little of the situation of your Legion – I know about Mortarion's crusade, and the resurgence that prompted it – but you will need to tell me more. There is just one more thing I would like to add to your proposal, if you please.'

'Name it,' said Ahriman, already guessing what that would be and immediately proved correct.

'I want to kill Ecellion with my own hands.' Once again, despite the flat tone of the vox-speaker, there was somehow emotion in Kelbor-Hal's words – this time, hatred.

'That,' nodded Ahriman, 'is entirely acceptable. Then we have a deal ?'

'We do,' confirmed Kelbor-Hal.

Sanakht advanced, and with a strike from each of his blades, cut through the dark magi's restraints. Holding him in telekine hold, Ahriman prevented him from falling, and brought him out of the cell.

'We will return to our ship now,' announced the Arch-Sorcerer. 'You need medical attention before we can remake you into your former glory.'

'My cortical implants,' wheezed Kelbor-Hal, his sudden freedom putting new strains upon his augmetics. 'Ecellion ripped them out of me, but he couldn't break their contents' encryption – that was one of the reasons why he kept me alive. Recover them, and I will be of much greater use to you. Many of my secrets were in them, preserved more surely than if I had left them in my brain.'

'This is already part of our attack force's objectives,' assured Ahriman. 'Once we have secured you, they will no longer need to remain stationary to act as a diversion – we will take this fortress and make it the first stronghold of our alliance. We will reclaim that which was taken from you, and your mind will be returned to you soon. Before long, you shall be Lord of the First Ring.'

With a telepathic command to Ashur-Kai, the rip in space opened again, at the exact same spot where it had delivered the Thousand Sons. It was always easier to bridge points in space together that had already been bound in such a manner before. Seconds later, the Exalted Sorcerers and their august guest were through, and the portal snapped close behind them. Ahriman kept a psychic shield around Kelbor-Hal – in his condition, he was too weakened to risk exposing him to the Warp. They emerged on the bridge of the _Tlaloc_ , and Kelbor-Hal was immediately taken by a group of servitors directly under the Anamnesis' control, with a gaggle of hereteks and medicae following as they bore the diminished Fabricator-General toward the closest Apothecarion.

On the surface of the Ring, Khayon received Ahriman's signal that it was time for the next step of the plan. He relayed it to his brothers, not using the vox as he had ever since they had landed. Having spent the entire battle able to listen in on the Astartes' communications, and doubtlessly feeling very clever for it, the Dark Mechanicum forces were caught completely by surprise when the Thousand Sons stopped to merely hold their ground and went on the offensive. Khayon led the charge himself, emerging atop a toppled tank the size of a Land Raider. With a burst of pure, unrefined power, he tore a hole through the skitarii arrayed before him, before leaping into the opening and beginning to slay his foes in a more conventional fashion with his power axe.

Gyre was at his side, her maw dripping with various liquids. Any true wolf, even one born of Fenris, would have been poisoned to death by the tainted flesh and toxic metal of the Dark Mechanicum skitarii, but she had already devoured plenty of them, swallowing their wretched, starved souls along with their bodies. Despite the fighting, her fur was still immaculate, lacking even a slight charring from a missing las-bolt. Never was her true nature more clear than when she fought at Khayon's side.

The rest of the Thousand Sons' assault forces were not so pristine. The Sorcerers and battle-automatas that followed their leader into battle all bore marks of battle – cracked armor, damaged weapons, and blood trickling from wounds that hadn't closed yet. Despite the Thousand Sons' sorcerous mastery, the last few minutes had been most unkind to them, surrounded by the Dark Mechanicum and sustaining concentrated, endless fire. It might have been necessary for Ahriman's plan to succeed, but no one in the history of warfare has ever enjoyed being bait, even less so when they have far more teeth than those they are baiting.

And so, it was with a lot of anger to vent that Khayon and his Company finally let loose, determined to bring down the fortress' master and claim it in the name of their newly forged alliance with the former Fabricator-General.


	15. The Means of Control

It took Khayon three hours to breach the fortress and reach his target. Not that it was entirely devoid of Dark Mechanicum forces by that point, of course – there were still thousands of skitarii, and millions of menials and servitors that could be forced into battle. But three hours after Ahriman had retrieved Kelbor-Hal from his cell and removed the need for holding back, Khayon dropped Ecellion Perroxicus onto the bridge of the _Tlaloc_ , having dragged the former Arch-Heretek of Nizar Gamma through a portal with rather less care Ahriman had provided for the Fabricator-General. With their leader gone, the rest of Nizar Gamma's troops had abandoned the fight, either drawn to lesser hereteks assuming control of them or wandering on their own, their minds free for the first time in their entire lives. Even the latter were still driven by implanted protocols and old-fashioned survival instinct, and they had gotten out of the way of the Thousand Sons.

While Khayon's armor had sustained some damage, especially in the last push to breach the dark magos' sanctum, his prey was in much worse condition. All of his thirteen mecha-dendrites were gone, some destroyed by Thousand Sons guns, others ripped off telekinetically, and a couple torn by Khayon's own hands in his final battle with the dark magos. Several cables sparked where they had been cut, and a few tubes had been leaking fluids until whatever reservoir they had been connected to had run dry. All of Ecellion's three arms were also gone, and the ceramite armor covering his body was cracked and punctuated in several places, while half of his augmetic eyes were broken.

At Ahriman's insistence, Khayon had refrained from obliterating him outright, but Ecellion had heavily augmented himself for combat – quite wisely as it had turned out, if not sufficiently so – and he had fought to the last. Apparently, there had been warning systems in the gate Ahriman and Sanakht had ripped open, and as soon as Ecellion had understood why the Thousand Sons had come he had been ready to fight to the death rather than allow himself to be captured. Had the bastard's resistance not cost him several of his warriors, Khayon would have admired such fighting spirit, but as it was, he was rather peeved he didn't have the opportunity to kill him with his own hands.

All four Exalted Sorcerers of the warband were present, along with a squad of Sorcerers and battle-automatas, their weapons trained on the prisoner. Broken and defeated he might be, but the Thousand Sons wouldn't underestimate the resourcefulness of an Arch-Heretek. But Ecellion wasn't looking at any of the threatening guns aimed at him – instead, his remaining augmetic eyes were directed at the one who, until so very recently, had been _his_ prisoner.

The tech-priests of the _Tlaloc_ had worked quickly to rebuild Kelbor-Hal. Ordinarily, installing such heavy augmentation would have taken days, with weeks or months of recovery needed afterward, but the former Fabricator-General's body had already had all the implantation sockets. All that had been required had been to put new augmetics in the holes, so to speak, and then the adamantium will and familiarity with controlling mechanical body parts of the patient (once his metabolism had been cleared of the drugs that had flooded it) had done the rest. The fact that Khayon had always been able to have only the best tech-priests available to the Fifteenth aboard his ship, thanks to the presence of the Anamnesis, hadn't hurt either.

Refusing anesthetics, Kelbor-Hal had directed his own repair, and was now returned to the aspect he had when he had stood upon the bridge of the _Vengeful Spirit_ years before, as the rebellion neared its conclusion. He was taller than anyone else in the room now, his spindly body concealed by a black hooded cloak. Crimson augmetic eyes glowed in the shadows of the hood, and an array of mecha-dendrites ending in various tools emerged from his sleeves and from holes in his back. He had begun to make modifications to himself the moment the first of these had been affixed, and even now, as he loomed over his former captor, the sounds of self-improvement could be heard emanating from beneath the cloth.

'Ecellion,' he said, with a new vox-speaker that charged that single word with enough threat to make a Space Marine nervous. 'You disappoint me.'

'I have nothing to regret,' replied the captive, again showing admirable courage. 'If you could not stop me and the others from overthrowing you, then you were too weak to lead in the first place.'

'Yes,' nodded Kelbor-Hal, 'but that is not why I am disappointed, _that_ is why I am _furious._ My disappointment, fallen disciple of mine, stems from the fact that, after decades pursuing the line of research that brought us to the Rings, you have found nothing. That, after so long fighting your rivals and strengthening your fortress, you were still captured so easily. That, after successfully plotting against _me_ , you fell for Ahriman's scheme !'

One of the mecha-dendrites sprung forward, stabbing deep within Ecellion's chest and lifting him in the air, eliciting a pained growl. Kelbor-Hal brought his former student up until the two of them were face-to-face, and continued :

'In my cell, I at least had the consolation that someone who had proved _better_ than I would be able to lead. But now I see that you have become a fool, too confident in your power. You have failed the Dark Mechanicum – you have failed the Eightfold Omnissiah – you have failed the Quest for Knowledge. For all of these reasons, and, I admit, because I will enjoy it greatly … _die._ '

In a flash, a handful more mecha-dendrites burst from his sleeves, and cut Ecellion apart before he had the time to say more than an abruptly interrupted gurgled scream. Pieces of flesh and metal fell to the deck, and Khayon silently _tsked_ , knowing the Anamnesis disliked having gore on the bridge – as much as the gestalt intelligence could be said to dislike anything. The assembled warriors and robots lowered their weapons, and began to file out of the bridge, back to their posts on the ship. One of Kelbor-Hal's prehensile limbs held a small sphere – Ecellion's memory core, ripped out of his biological brain. Seeing it reminded Khayon of the other thing he had brought back aboard.

'Here,' he said, gesturing to one of his remaining men to bring a series of engraved metallic disks to the remaining Arch-Heretek. 'We found them in his command center, held in a stasis field.'

Another mecha-dendrite – different from the ones Kelbor-Hal had used to rend his former captor apart – delicately picked up the memory carriers, and slid back into his robe. There were a few clicks as he opened the appropriate ports in his augmented body, and then he was once more in possession of the knowledge and experiences he had uploaded to the implants before his capture. The change was subtle, but visible to the Thousand Sons : his aura flared with a sudden rush of understanding and renewed lore. His personality didn't change, nor did his outward behavior – clearly the Fabricator-General hadn't been foolish enough to put life-changing experiences in devices that could be taken away. However, a few consoles nearby sparked, and Khayon's own vision was replaced by static for a fraction of a second before his helmet display adjusted – but even then, looking at Kelbor-Hal caused his helm's machine-spirit to protest in response to the low-intensity scrap-code that surrounded the Arch-Heretek, making it impossible to scan his circuits.

'My thanks,' declared Kelbor-Hal after several seconds. 'It has been … a long time since I have been whole. It was a blessing, I think, not to know just how much I had lost until I had it back.'

'We have held the first part of our bargain,' intervened Ahriman, guiding the attention of . 'Now the next phase of our alliance can begin – we must seize control of the Rings. How long will it take you to assume full control over the remaining forces of Nizar Gamma ?'

'About a week … If I were alone. With your help, no more than a few hours,' affirmed Kelbor-Hal. 'But we must begin now, while Ecellion's servants haven't recovered from the shock of your attack, or started fighting each other for the succession. Captain Khayon, you led the assault to capture Ecellion. How damaged was the command room when you left it ?'

Khayon sent his armor pict-recording to the dark magos' system, and he nodded, the human gesture made unsettling by the total absence of visible flesh and his general body structure.

'Good. Despite the battle, it appears that the underlying control mechanisms remained more or less intact. Once I am in there, I will be able to take control quickly, especially with the security codes the late Ecellion was so kind to leave in my care.'

'Auspex detect signals already emanating from the chamber,' chimed in the Anamnesis from a dozen mouths at once. 'Someone is already there, trying to take control of the skitarii network.'

'One of Ecellion's seconds didn't waste time,' deduced Khayon, slightly impressed at the speed of reaction of the surviving hereteks – it had barely been five minutes since his warriors had been warped off the surface – before sighing. 'We should have left a rear guard to hold the place, but I didn't want to risk them being trapped. Well, we seized that place once, and we can do it again.'

'I think we can make this second capture easier and quicker,' said Ahriman, 'now that we know the precise location of our target.' A smile appeared on Khayon's face as he caught his brother's meaning.

'You know, I haven't worn one of these suits since they were introduced and every officer had to go through the training to learn how to use one,' said Khayon idly, as he and his command squad massed into the _Tlaloc_ 's teleportarium forty minutes later.

He and the nine Sorcerers accompanying him wore bulking suits of Terminator war-plate, a gift from one of Sortiarus' magos to Ahriman that the Arch-Sorcerer had brought on the _Tlaloc_ with him when they had left the Planet of the Sorcerers. Despite his rank, Ahriman had been left without warriors under his direct command by the vagaries of the rebellion – though he had always been able to wield his authority as First Captain, even before the Rubric had made him nearly the equal of Magnus in his brothers' eyes – and he had offered the suits to Khayon in compensation of using his ship for what was supposed to be a simple diplomatic mission.

While marked with the heraldry of the older Scarab Occults of the Legion, the armors didn't wear the red of the Thousand Sons, but the blue and bronze that prevaled more and more among the weaponry fabricated in Sortiarus' forges. No one was really sure where the change in color was coming from – the magi assured their Legionary masters that they remembered ordering the suits painted in the old colors, only for the armors to be brought out of storage in their new coloration. A couple of Exalted Sorcerers and their students had been investigating the phenomenum when they had left, but with the war against the armies of the Plague God raging, no doubt that line of inquiry had been put aside. Khayon had his suspicions, however, and he found them disquieting.

Regardless of their painting, the suits were perfectly functional, and an Astartes never forgot how to use anything related to warfare. Each was equiped with different weaponry – the Fifteenth Legion had drawn to it members of the Dark Mechanicum who didn't think much of standardization – all of which seemed appropriately lethal. Khayon's own suit was armed with a power fist wreathed in warp-fire, and a range weapon that might, at some point in its design history, have been a combi-bolter. After some consideration, he had left _Saern_ into his quarters. The weapon, powerful as it might be under ordinary circumstances, would have been ridiculously too small with his current bulk. His deck of tarot cards, too, had been left behind – he couldn't have picked up the cards manually, and using psychic energies to manipulate the bound daemons was unwise. Furthermore, they wanted to capture the command chamber as intact as possible, and bringing in the Neverborn wasn't exactly the best way to achieve that.

Gyre stood at Khayon's side, looking almost like a regular-sized wolf next to the Terminators around her, and Kelbor-Hal behind him, surrounded by a circle of Legionaries. The daemonic she-wolf would ride along the teleportation easily, and the Fabricator-General had assured them that his systems were capable of surviving the transition. They could have used sorcery to open a conduit, but that would make them emerge one by one in the middle of enemy territory, and by this point there was no doubt that the surviving hereteks were aware of this ability and be prepared for it. Besides, tearing too many holes in reality in the same place over a short period of time drew the wrong kind of attention from the Warp (although it could easily be argued that was the _only_ kind of attention there could be from that direction), which brought them back to the risks of the Neverborn tearing up the place before the Thousand Sons could use it.

At the Anamnesis' signal, the tech-priests punched the activation rune, and the twelve members of the party, each a formidable combattant in their own right, were cast across the empyric tides of the Great Ocean. Teleportation was even more of a gamble anywhere in the Eye of Terror, but the dark magi at Sortiarus had made improvements here too, and after a timeless eternity spent as a being of pure thought lost in an infinite sea of soul-stuff, Khayon and his companions burst back into existence exactly where the Exalted Sorcerer had stood less than an hour before.

Cries of corrupted binaric rose in alarm at their appearance, but before anyone could bring their weapons to bear, the Thousand Sons lashed out with their psychic powers. Meanful not to damage the equipment any more than it already had been, they struck with telepathic spears, jumping from one tech-thrall to the next. Despite their speed, they couldn't get them all before they opened fire anyway, but the Terminator armor did its job, and within a minute of the squad's arrival the chamber was silent once more, save for the beeping of the remaining machinery and the moans of those who had survived the mental barrage. Gyre emerged from the shadows, her jaw dripping with blood once more.

After finishing off the survivors, the Thousand Sons moved to secure the accesses to the room – this was the duty for which their weapons would actually be put to use – leaving Khayon and Kelbor-Hal amidst the machines. The Arch-Heretek didn't waste any time, half a dozen dendrites rising and plugging into the scattered consoles, whose screens immediately began to scroll with warning runes as he forced his way into the skitarii control network. One by one, the runes vanished as he overrode their security – but the process was slower than Khayon had expected.

'Ecellion divided the network into several separate parts,' said Kelbor-Hal, sounding impressed with his treacherous pupil now that he was dead. 'To prevent all of his troops from being turned against him at once. I have the codes for all of them, but the magi we just killed were working on changing the control protocols for those I haven't seized yet. Considering how extensive some of these alterations are, we can assume they were plotting something like this for a long time now.'

'Disunity like this is why we lost the war,' said Khayon, shaking his head. 'The Dark Mechanicum will never achieve anything if you spend your time betraying each other like this. I know,' he continued, raising his hand, 'it makes sure only the strongest, most cunning survive … But the weak can always be of use, and the constant paranoia prevent you from fulfilling your true potential. Together, the Dark Mechanicum would be more powerful than any Legion.'

'But this is why you are here,' said Kelbor-Hal sardonically, 'isn't it ? To unite the Rings ?'

'Yes,' sighed Khayon. 'My apologies, Fabricator-General, I am feeling … philosophical. I will leave you to your work and ensure you aren't disturbed.'

A few hours later, Nizar Gamma had fallen. There had been a few desperate attacks on the command chamber, as dark magi noticed what was happening and sent the forces still under their control to try and stop Kelbor-Hal's subvertive efforts, but those were crushed by the Thousand Sons. Ecellion had built his command center to be easily defensible, and the Terminators blocked the access tunnels almost completely. Dozens more of skitarii were slain trying to reclaim the chamber, until Kelbor-Hal had turned enough of them under his direct control that the remaining hereteks had either fled the fortress or sent their surrender over the vox. The former Fabricator-General had suggested they accept these capitulations, and Khayon had agreed with him. After all, they were here to recruit allies, not slaughter everyone who crossed them.

Once the fortress was secure – with more Sorcerers and battle-automatas brought in from the _Tlaloc_ to ensure that was the case – Kelbor-Hal turned his attention upward. The orbital defenses that had survived the Thousand Sons' attack had wisely not attempted to fire upon their vessel, and their overseers were quickly turned to their cause. Few of Ecellion's ships had survived the devastating conflict ignited by the _Tlaloc_ 's teleport, but those which had were limping home now, and their captains, presented the choice between submission to the new master of Nizar Gamma and destruction at the guns of the very docks whose aid they sought, sent their positive replies quickly.

Khayon remained at Kelbor-Hal's side all that time, watching the Arch-Heretek for any sign of treachery. Despite their accord, Ahriman didn't trust the former lord of the Mechanicum, who hadn't expected it to be any other way. His thoughts might be shielded, but the moment Khayon received a sign from his brothers that he had turned against them, the Exalted Sorcerer would unleash his full powers upon Kelbor-Hal, and put an end to his infamous career once and for all.

As it turned out, he didn't have too, and soon all of Ecellion's remaining assets were under the alliance's control. With the other lords of the Second Ring still thrown in disarray by the civil war Ahriman had triggered, the opportunity to add to their ranks was impossible to pass. After a brief dicussion over the vox with the Arch-Sorcerer, Kelbor-Hal and the Thousand Sons agreed on a plan.

A few hours later, every vox-station across the Rings of Artek-Ker warned of a clear transmission on all frequencies, emanating from the very fortress the Thousand Sons had just conquered. Hololithic projections crackled to life, displayin the looming silhouette of a man who had long since faded into terrible myth, yet was still familiar to most dark magi, who had either seen him in person or in image during their own lives, or consulted archives in which he played a prominent role.

'I am Kelbor-Hal,' said the vision of the distant past, 'founder of the Dark Mechanicum. Each of you only draws breath, only exists here in this realm free of the lies of the False Omnissiah, because of the choices _I_ made. For a long time, I have been gone, leaving you to your own devices. And I am not impressed with what you have done in my absence. You have not conquered the mysteries of the Eye. You have not raised the mighty armies your knowledge and resources would have allowed you to, instead wasting both in internecine wars that have bled you dry.'

'Now I am returned, and I declare that this is at an end. All who draw breath within the Rings shall bend knee to me, or be destroyed by the forces under my command and those allied to me under the Fifteenth Legion's. You watched as Ecellion, one of the strongest among you, was captured in the heart of his stronghold. I killed him myself to punish him for his failure. If I could to this to _him_ , then consider whether _you_ will ever be truly safe from my wrath, and you will come to the same inevitable conclusion : you cannot. Only in obedience can you be protected. Serve … or die.'


	16. The Armies of Artek-Ker

Well, here is the next part. This time, I blame the delay on the DLC for _Darkest Dungeon_ that was released recently, but that I just learned about. Those of you who read my Chaos Quotes know that I enjoy that game a great deal, and I spent half my week-end watching my brave adventurers being slaughtered by eldritch horrors and vile, debased cultists. Having started a new run of the game to test the new features, it's going to be a long, bloody ride ... But enough about that. Today's update is only partly a true "story" bit. It is more of an army list, in a way, containing the new unit types developed in the Rings and that will be used by the Thousand Sons in the war for Sortiarus.

Enjoy, and if you can think of a new unit type, don't hesitate to leave its description ! These are surprisingly hard to come up with.

* * *

The unification of the Rings of Artek-Ker, by all standards, advanced much more quickly than it should have. Less than four months after Kelbor-Hal's announcement, the domain from which they had begun the unification campaign spread over the entirety of the Second Ring. There was still battle on the First Ring, as the daemonic legions of the Blood God fought to prevent those aligned with the Thousand Sons from seizing it, but no heretek drew breath upon the Ring closest to the singularity's pale light that did not give fealty to Kelbor-Hal or the sons of Magnus.

The territories neighbouring Nizar Gamma had been subsumed into it as it required more and more space. While Kelbor-Hal increased his forces by turning all the facilities of Nizar Gamma toward production rather than researching the singularity, the Thousand Sons were active throughout the system. From the _Tlaloc_ , Ahriman directed his brothers like pieces on a game board, sending them to bring the other factions under their control. Some were sent as emissaries, bringing offers of knowledge and promises of a place in the new empire of the Fifteenth Legion. Others were sent as generals, leading the armies of the Dark Mechanicum to crush those who resisted. And on other occasions still, they were sent as assassins, striking with overwhelming force to remove a leader who refused to submit so that he could be replaced by a more amenable subordinate. All the while, Ahriman directed their actions, looking upon the complex tapestry of alliances and rivalries and pulling the strings so as to shatter factions and prevent those resisting them from uniting.

With thirteen Rings in total, and the outward ones boasting a surface greater than most planets, true conquest and unification was an impossible goal. Even if they spent centuries here, which they certainly did not have, there would always be pockets of resistance to Kelbor-Hal's rule, and the Arch-Heretek accepted this – in fact, he rejoiced in it. He truly did believe that conflict bred strength by allowing the superior design to prove itself against the rest. Fortunately, Ahriman's goals were in alignment with those of their Dark Mechanicum ally. All they really needed was for Kelbor-Hal to control enough of Artek-Ker that none could deny his claim as Lord of the First Ring, and to have enough forces under his control that he could keep his part of the bargain and help them breach the siege of Sortiarus. That thought – the knowledge that their new homeworld was even now fighting against those who would crush the Fifteenth Legion's resurrected dream into the dust – haunted the Thousand Sons, driving all joy from the war they prosecuted here.

Thankfully, there were many signs that Ahriman had been right in coming to the Rings, and those helped the sons of Magnus endure the wait for them to go to their Legion's aid. Despite Kelbor-Hal's words of scorn for Ecellion, there were many things to admire in the work the Dark Mechanicum had accomplished since coming to the Rings. The drive to progress through the Rings, to seize dominion over one of the First Ring's territories, had motivated research into weaponry like nothing else could have. Warped by the power of the Eye of Terror and possessing of the lore they had brought back with them from the forbidden vaults of Mars, the dark magi had let their imagination run loose. As more hereteks submitted, they brought their designs with them to Nizar Gamma's gene-mills and forges. New types of warriors were being created, weapons to fight in the coming war. Each design had been intended as the ultimate tool for its specific purpose, and once wielded together, they would form an army to match any seen during the Great Crusade. Of course, the immense majority of this army would be made of the common skitarii and armed tech-thralls, not much different in skill from those employed by the tech-priests still loyal to the Golden Throne. They would march upon the enemies of the alliance in their tens of thousand, on foot and in a variety of transports and tanks, with artillery guns providing cover. But at their side, there would be a host of combatants such as the Eye of Terror had never seen.

Still at Kelbor-Hal's side, Khayon reviewed the different unit types that were now produced within the forges. Many were still in testing, prototypes built in laboratories and tested in artificial battlefields. Those that passed these first tests would then be deployed in the unification campaign itself, and judged by the Thousand Sons and Dark Mechanicum warlords who directed it. Only those designs who received the recommendation of at least three different warlords of both factions were then authorized for mass-production, although that term was misguiding in some cases. Many were as much artwork as weapons, and required the attention of several skilled hereteks to create.

The Theonarchs were one such creation. The heretek who had first designed them had hailed from an isolated forge-world in Segmentum Obscurus, who had been re-discovered and brought into the Imperium by the Word Bearers _after_ their Primarch's infamous Pilgrimage. The sons of Lorgar had seeded the forge-world with their infernal worship, and their influence was obvious in the Theonarchs' design. Each was a five-meters tall animated statue, forged from stone and metal into the aspect of a different godling of the Warp, like an icon of a divinity worshiped on some primitive world. Some had animal heads upon humanoid bodies, while others were wholly monstrous. Within these golems were bound the daemons whose essence had inspired the design, not summoned and forcefully chained to the vessel, but willingly pacted to this service. Beyond the strength their new bodies possessed, the daemons could channel their own power, granting supernatural abilities to the golems. Khayon doubted these creatures could survive outside the Eye of Terror without a constant supply of Warp energy from a Sorcerer or another source, but they would serve their purpose on Sortiarus. As they were, they took orders from a Dark Mechanicum handler who had to follow them on the field, but a Thousand Son could command them as well.

Unlike the Theonarchs' hand-crafted elegance, there was nothing beautiful in the grotesque aspect of the Mind-Eaters. These gene-bred monstrosities had been the work of a particularly twisted dark magos, who had fought the Thousand Sons to his death. His research, when brought to Kelbor-Hal's attention, had immediately been transmitted to a team for study, and soon a new crop of Mind-Eaters had been born from the genetic facilities of Nizar Gamma. The Mind-Eaters were the result of extensive genetic manipulation on a mutant breed their original maker had discovered on a daemon world near the Eye of Terror's core. What the creatures had ressembled then, no records remained to tell, but their spawn were hideous, hunched beasts, with a hideously distorted cranium. Once grown to adulthood in their pods, their atrophied limbs were removed and replaced with superior cybernetic replacement, along with devices allowing them to move fast from position to position. These enhancements and the Mind-Eaters' natural cowardice made them superior infiltrators, stalking the shadows of enemy territory and seeking isolated prey. Once they caught a foe, they did what had earned them their name. Their mouths were perfectly circular and toothless, but with a tongue that was long and incredibly sharp, capable of piercing through any skull or protection given time. Once inside their captive's brain, they devoured it, gaining all the knowledge of their prey. In their natural state, that knowledge was immediately lost, but the heretek had found a way to have it stored on data-cores carried by the Mind-Eaters instead, to be recovered by the creatures' masters for analysis. The simple terror factor of finding a body in such a condition was nothing to scoff at either – even in the Eye of Terror, the sight of a comrade with a pierced, hollow skull was enough to make most warriors look around themselves more cautiously, at least.

The pattern of cybernetic enhancement known as the Volturius originated from a strange section of the Ninth Ring. Long ago, it had transformed into a collection of floating islands, gravity rendered a complete mess by some impossibly ancient cataclysm. This section spread for almost a thousand kilometers, and many hereteks fought for control over it, seeking to study its strange gravitics. The Volturius had been developed for warfare in that unique environment, flying from one island to the next through the gravity-less void separating them. They had great wings – most only had two, but others had more – that were adorned with thrusters like those of an aircraft. The wings were flexible enough to allow them to move in any relative direction, and the thrusters were powerful enough that the Volturius could operate in an atmosphere with actual gravity as well. Protected by their void-sealed suits, they could descend from orbit to attack an enemy stronghold, their bodies enhanced to resist the ridiculous amount of g-forces this required them to endure. Conditioning and cybernetic implants helped the Volturius fly instinctively with a speed and grace that far surpassed that of even the most dedicated Raptor, for no single jump-pack could match the wings of the Volturius. Due to the brutal nature of their method of transportation, they couldn't carry weapons that might be lost – instead, their arms ended in various armaments that were fused to their bodies. Some sported power claws, while others had meltas and flamers that spat phospex, capable of burning even in the void of space. The Thousand Sons had had to obliterate a fortress from orbit after the Volturius had rampaged in it, causing the unstoppable chemical fire to spread. The destruction had been the only way to prevent the entire Ring from going up in green, all-consuming fire. But it had been a small price, compared to the asset the Volturius could be once properly directed.

Another extreme environment of the Rings had resulted in the creation of the Endless Ones. They had first been deployed on the Eleventh Ring, in a section that decades of industrial disasters and unchecked biological weaponry had turned into a scene straight out of the nightmares of Mankind's first great war against itself. Great clouds completely covered the region, obscuring sight less than one meter away and poisoning all life to death in a matter of seconds. Even the most powerful filters could not make the air breathable, forcing the Dark Mechanicum forces that still battled for control of this wasteland to adapt. The Endless Ones were to normal skitarii what the skitarii were to unaugmented humans. The only part of their flesh that remained was a small section of their brain – all the rest had been replaced by cybernetics. From the outside, they appeared to be normal human soldiers, though clad in power armor of an ancient design. Their brains were actually located within their "chest", though they saw through pict-recorders installed in the helmets that topped their bodies. These helmets were filled with all manner of sensory auspex in order to be able to navigate the toxic fog of their original environment. They moved slowly, and carried massive weapons, making full use of their Astartes-grade strength. A small nuclear power plant supplied them with all the energy they required to keep functioning for centuries before needing to be reloaded. They were poor conversationalists – their worldview was limited to battle – but when the Thousand Sons fought the Death Guard on the Fourteenth's usual polluted battlefields, the Endless Ones would be a tremendous asset, capable of matching the resilience of Mortarion's sons.

One of the more powerful, but also controversial devices, was the Psi-Engine, created by a heretek whose main avenue of research was the psyker gene and its various effects. He had obviously had some success, and the Psi-Engines were the result of his work. Each was pillar of black metal engraved with runes that hovered half a meter above the ground like some dreadful monolith. The source of the levitation was the same as that of the Psi-Engine's weapons : cloned psyker brains, contained within a sustaining tank. To many among the Thousand Sons, the Psi-Engine was an abomination, a monstrous torture device. But its maker claimed that the brains trapped within his creations were not actually sentient, merely circuits of biological matter through which the power of the Warp could flow and be channelled by the device surrounding them. Regardless of whether he was right or not, a Psi-Engine could unleash devastating psychic effects, though never subtle ones. Remotely controlled by a heretek, they could annihilate entire squads from a great distance, serving as some kind of psychic artillery. But even their creator admitted that, when he had used them on the field, he had always kept the rest of his forces a great distance away, guiding the Psi-Engine alone toward the enemy. Khayon wasn't certain how he felt about these things – they reminded him too much of what had become of his sister. All he could sense when near a Psi-Engine was raw, unfiltered Warp energy, devoid of anything resembling thought or reason. No mind, no soul, _nothing._ Perhaps the heretek was right and the brain matter was merely a portal to the Warp … or perhaps the brains were driven so insane that even he could not recognize their sentience.

While the armies that now fought under Kelbor-Hal's banner were led from afar, through synaptic connections not dissimilar to those employed by the Adeptus Mechanicus, one of the Rings' scholars of war had decided that such a way wasn't the optimal one. This heretek believed that troops who could see their leader on the field were more motivated, and the presence on the very site of battle granted a perspective that the synaptic connection lacked, and prevented the risk of it being interrupted by enemy action. Yet the true lords of the Dark Mechanicum, the Arch-Hereteks, rarely took to the field, their minds to precious to risk. To fill that void, he had worked long and hard to design a new type of commander worthy of leading the Dark Mechanicum legions. After many experiments involving cloning and hypno-training, he had finally fallen back on more primitive but reliable methods. The domain of that heretek, on the Eighth Ring of Artek-Ker, stood atop an extensive network of tunnels and caves in which he had created an entire civilization. There dwelled millions of primitive folks, divided in nations led by their mighty kings, who waged an endless war upon one another, using the weapons gifted to them by those they believed to be envoys of the gods, but who were in fact the heretek's agents. Thus trained in the art of battle, upon their fortieth birthday, they were ritually harvested, believing that they were to ascend and lead the gods' armies into battle. They were then heavily augmented, granted the ability to see through the eyes of the cybernetic forces placed under their command and their sensory input altered so that the lie they had believed while in their subterranean realm continued to hold them in its sway. The Hollow Kings, covered in heavy war-plate and armed with weapons forged in mimicry of those they had carried in battle before their transformation, were formidable warriors in their own right, and their grasp of tactics was impressive, especially once reinforced with additional hypno-teaching. Sanakht had told Khayon of how he had seen one of them lead the charge through enemy trenches, slaughtering all in his path and avoiding to be caught by the superior enemy force wandering them.

All of a sudden, Khayon's attention was torn from the data-slate he had been reading, as multiple alarms blared across the command center, and a wave of panic nearly submerged his senses. He cast his mind far and wide, searching for the source of the disturbance, and found it almost immediately. A great fleet had just appeared at the edge of the system, and the first warnings had arrived from the outlying outposts, sent faster than light through sorcerous means. _The Iron Warriors_ , cried out the thralls aboard these distant stations. _The sons of Perturabo have come ! We are doomed !_

For a terrible moment, Khayon feared that all he and his brothers had achieved in Artek-Ker would be reduced for naught. The Fourth Legion would not have come to the Rings in force without bringing enough of it to crush all opposition and enforce their rule. Even if the Thousand Sons could tip the balance, it would leave the Dark Mechanicum crippled, unable to go to Sortiarus' aid. But then, he caught a glimpse in the panicked communication, a report of a particular ship of a kind never seen before, and he laughed as he recognized it. A Silver Tower was among the Iron Warriors armada. There was only one possible reason for that, and Khayon rushed to ensure that no one among their forces opened fire on the new arrivals. Kelbor-Hal had stopped talking to his subordinates and was focused on the same issue. With a burst of telepathic transmission, Khayon sent the knowledge that this was an allied force directly into the Arch-Heretek's brain. In the time it would take him to speak out loud, the stations could open fire in panic, and everything could degenerate really quickly after that. Besides, he trusted the strength of Kelbor-Hal's mind's not to be overwhelmed by the transmission. As he had anticipated, Kelbor-Hal barely twitched at the transmission, turning to glare at the Exalted Sorcerer for a second before starting to give orders that the fleet be allowed free passage through the Rings.

'Brother,' called Ahriman over the vox a few minutes later. 'The _Tlaloc_ is battle-ready, and our brothers are withdrawing from their battles to join us. Do you see the intruders ?'

'Yes, I see them,' Khayon laughed as he watched the more precise sensory feeds come in, revealing the scope of the force his brother had managed to bring from Medrengard. 'It's not an attack, Ahriman. It's Ignis. He actually did it ! He managed to convince the Iron Warriors to join us !'

'Then we must prepare for departure,' said Ahriman after a few seconds of stunned silence, his voice filled with determination. 'The time has come for us to return to Sortiarus.'


	17. Hope and Decay

AN : and here is another chapter. More exposition - we get to the exciting stuff soon, don't worry !

* * *

Sortiarus burned in the fires of war, as the enlightened fought against the slaves of decay.

Magnus, the Crimson King, avatar of one of the powers battling for Sortiarus, had not left the Tower of the Cyclops since his first sorcerous clash with Mortarion. While his incarnated body remained secure behind its cyclopean walls, his spirit wandered far and wide. When his spectral gaze fell upon them, his sons and those fighting for them were reinvigorated, while the servants of the Plague God shook in dread. In that manner did Magnus support his warriors wherever they were losing ground, while the bulk of his power was engaged in battling Mortarion's own corrupting influence. The Daemon Primarchs mostly cancelled each other's influence, but all in their armies could feel their titanic energies clashing in the aether, and knew that their lord hadn't abandoned them, but fought in spheres none of them could hope to reach.

Above the _Gift of Thot,_ three of the nine Keepers had fallen to the Death Guard, their Silver Towers dissolving upon their deaths. The remaining six stayed closer to the station, unleashing their sorceries upon any who dared come close. The _Gift of Thot_ was surrounded by the wrecks of destroyed ships from the Death Guard and Thousand Sons fleets. In the station itself, the hereteks fought against the invaders still, sending their constructs out of their strongholds to hunt down the Death Guards who had gone to ground in the devastated sections. From time to time, the Plague Fleets launched another assault to break through the Fifteenth Legion's fleet and send reinforcements on the _Gift of Thot_ , but the true war was being waged on the planet itself.

The Thousand Sons had suffered many setbacks during the war. Even if only one in ten of the troop carriers sent by Mortarion succeeded in crossing the gravitic fields of the nine suns, the Death Lord had plenty of forces, and thousands still made planetfall every month. While now dozens of Sorcerers worked tirelessly to cleanse the cities' air, in the first weeks several of them had been infected by airborn plagues, the contagion spreading among the mortal denizens until only the Astartes remained. Many of the fortresses located away from the cities had also fallen to the enemy, the warbands holding them either fleeing or, in some cases, fighting to the death.

Because of the nature of the Planet of the Sorcerers, it was impossible to tell how long the siege had been going on. In some places, the war had been going on for centuries, the cultists of the Death Guard having built entire cities onto the world's surface and sending entire generations to fight the armies of the Thousand Sons. Other sons of Magnus would swear the war had only been going on for a few weeks. Time, ever malleable in Sortiarus, was being further eroded by the confrontation of the two divine powers who clashed there. Many who fought on the surface reported not feeling hunger nor thirst, no matter how long they remained on the battlefield, and some turned to dust the moment they left it, time catching up with them at last. The time dilation affected both armies equally, though the scions of the God of Decay were naturally more resilient to their adverse effects.

There had been an advantage to this dissolution of the temporal flow for the Thousand Sons, however. For nine days, one of the cities the Fifteenth had raised to house the mortals drawn to Magnus' vision had been cut off from the rest of the planet, curtains of twisted time surrounding it that not even the most enduring of Nurgle's servants could cross. When the barrier had fallen, it had been revealed that centuries had passed inside the city. Of those who had been caught within, only the Thousand Sons remained – all the mortals had long since died, but their descendants lived on. The conditions within the isolated city had changed them, generation after generation, their psychic power growing as their bodies mutated further and further away from the human genetic pattern. The armies of Plague that had attacked the city as soon as the veil had been lifted had been torn to pieces, as a host of thousands of psykers unleashed their fury upon them. None of them could have passed for human on an Imperial world, their mutations varied but consistently crippling. Yet within their difform flesh, their souls burned bright, and the Thousand Sons were reminded of long-lost Prospero and its tolerance for mutation. The words of ancient Prosperine philosophers echoed in their minds : _"To the enlightened soul, difformity of the body means nothing."_ These Ascended, as they called themselves, might look like monsters, but their genetics were stable, and their minds remained sane – two key differences to the dreaded flesh-change Ahriman's Rubric had banished.

Besides, the Thousand Sons could hardly turn assistance away by this point. The Ascended had spread from their city of Al'Kyreh _,_ sending much needed reinforcements to other fronts of the war. Akhor'menet, the Exalted Sorcerer who had ruled Al'Kyreh during its isolation, had received much praise from his brothers for his work in preventing wild sorcerous outbreaks from destroying it and guiding the Ascended toward fulfilling the psychic potential of the human species. However, this windfall was hardly enough to truly turn the tides of the war. Mortarion's call to arms was still spreading throughout the Eye of Terror, and not a week passed without a new warband, led by a champion of Nurgle, joining the fray. Plague Sorcerers perverted the aetheric currents of Sortiarus to summon daemonic legions of their god, and the mutant tribes were torn apart by vicious conflict as many of their number were swayed by the whispered promises of the God of Life and Death. Even within the Thousand Sons' own cities, there were those who turned away from the dream of illumination of the Fifteenth Legion, embracing their baser instincts for survival instead.

Treachery, however, was a two-way street. The corruption of Nurgle ran deep within those brought to Sortiarus, but by the very nature of the Plague God, many who bore his mark did so grudgingly, struggling against their diseases rather than fully embracing them. The Thousand Sons ensured that rumors about the healing arts of the Pavoni were spread within the enemy ranks – an Exalted Sorcerer could purge all diseases and restore full health to any who was willing to renounce their allegiance to Nurgle. Telepaths nudged at their minds from afar, probing doubts and fears. It was all too easy to fill their dreams with images of terminal decay – after all, they lived surrounded by examples of it. Not many took the offer, but enough to seed paranoia among the armies of Nurgle.

Furthermore, the Thousand Sons had their own daemonic allies to call upon. No matter how many witches Mortarion drew to him, the Fifteenth Legion would always have more talented Sorcerers. When the Death Guard had breached through the Antharian Gate, it had only been the intervention of Ctesias, leader of the Fifteenth Legion's daemonists, that had saved the library-city of Ezyrthin from destruction. The Exalted Sorcerer had summoned an infernal legion to fight the Death Guard, paying a price for their help that he would never reveal. Other daemonists across the planet summoned daemons from the Court of Change, from Flamers and Horrors to the great Lords of Change, brought forth through bargains and threats in equal measure. The Neverborn followers of Tzeentch rejoiced at the rise of the Thousand Sons and reveled in an opportunity to fight those of their patron's rival god, but they were still daemons, and could not be trusted.

Even with the shadow of the Crimson King looming over them, the Lords of Change still plotted to increase their power among the Thousand Sons' new empire, enticing mortals and Legionaries with promises of power and knowledge. Remembering all too well the betrayal of their tutelaries and their Primarch's warnings, the Thousand Sons refused to heed them, but many among the mortals succumbed to their lure. If not for the raging conflict and the fact that these cultists of the God of Change still fought alongside the Thousand Sons with increased sorcerous powers, the lords of the Fifteenth Legion would have punished them for their foolishness. But with things being as they were, there was no choice but to allow these covenants to continue, no matter the price their members would end up paying for their gifts.

Such was the state of the war. Millions had perished on both sides – though far more of the dead were from Mortarion's armies – but neither side had made any significant progress. Then, at the edge of the storms surrounding Sortiarus, the Warp roared, and the wandering sons returned.


	18. Council of Warlords

AN : another short chapter. Events are set in motion, and great events will soon take place, but for now, I must set the stage for them.

* * *

Ahriman returned to Sortiarus at the head of an army worthy of the Legions of old. Hundreds of Dark Mechanicum vessels, spearheaded by the Astartes fleet composed of the _Tlaloc_ , Ignis' Silver Tower, and the Warsmith's Iron Warriors flotilla, burst through the storms, aimed directly at the Plague Fleet surrounding the _Gift of Thot_. Thanks to the Thousand Sons' Sorcerers spread out across the fleet, they had been able to maintain formation even through the Eye of Terror's tumultuous tides. Linked together by telepathic bonds, the Sorcerers had guided their vessels, while those without a son of Magnus onboard had aligned their course on those who had one. Now, as the fleet prepared for battle, the scattered Thousand Sons gathered once more aboard the _Tlaloc_ , using prepared sorcerous portals to move instantly between vessels. Only Ignis and his followers remained on his Silver Tower, which sailed along with the Iron Warriors it had guided – just as it had when it had brought them to the Rings in the first place.

'It wasn't easy,' Ignis had said when Khayon had asked him how he had found them. 'I had my disciples and Thrall Wizards summon and interrogate hundreds of daemons until we found one who knew you were in the Rings. Then we summoned other Neverborn that the Iron Warriors knew had been involved in the fighting there, to confirm it. Once we were certain, we sailed immediately.'

Now, Ignis was the Thousand Sons' liaison with the Iron Warriors contingent. That was for the best, as Khayon had to admit, to himself and Gyre if no one else, that the Warsmith who led the Fourth Legion's forces unnerved him. He had encountered full-fledged Daemon Princes before, in the final days of the civil war and later in the Eye, but never a being on the edge of apotheosis like the Warsmith. Somehow, looking at the warlord with his second sight was far more unnerving than staring into the union of tortured light and pitch-black abyss that made up a Daemon Prince's essence. Perhaps that was due to the fact he was dedicated to no one Dark God, or perhaps because, according to Ashur-Kai's divinations, his ascendancy was still many hundreds of years in the future, despite already possessing such power. Ignis, however, didn't feel that unease, his cold analytical mind proof against such sensations. Khayon hadn't like the Master of Ruin much before – but now, he and the entire Legion owed him a great debt, and Khayon would repay that debt one day.

As the fleet advanced, still hours left before contact, the Exalted Sorcerers gathered in the _Tlaloc_ 's strategium. The Warsmith was also present, though only by hololith, as was Ignis, his own image projected through sorcery rather than technology. After much consideration, Kelbor-Hal had remained in the Rings. The unification of Artek-Ker was still a fragile thing, especially with so much of the forces loyal to the coalition of Dark Mechanicum and Thousand Sons leaving. The Arch-Heretek had promised he would come to Sortiarus once the world was freed and things were more stable in his domain, and Khayon had no reason to doubt him in this. Ambition burned within Kelbor-Hal, but he craved knowledge more than he did temporal power, and the Planet of the Sorcerers had much forbidden lore to offer him. Instead, the Dark Mechanicum fleet was under the Thousand Sons' direct control, with the ships' captains and the ground troops' warlords answering directly to them in matters related to the coming battle.

Their representative at this meeting was one of the Arch-Hereteks who had joined the coalition at the beginning of the campaign, who Khayon suspected had been sent by Kelbor-Hal partly in order to remove a potential rival for leadership in the Rings. Of all the dark magi Khayon had encountered in the last months, Mortis was one of the most unusual : his body seemed to be made of interwoven glass columns within which his heart could still be seen, the only remaining flesh organ. His head was made of crystal, with a golden mask on each side with a different expression.

Hanging from the Arch-Sorcerer's waist, looking like an entirely innocuous book, was the Necroteuch. Ahriman had spent the entire journey to Sortiarus studying Lorgar's gift, and it showed in his aura. Threads of darkness were woven into his soul, making the soulfire that burned around them seem even brighter by comparison. The power he had woven during his reading to quicken the fleet's advance had altered his armor – and probably his flesh too. No longer was Ahriman's war-plate the crimson of Prospero's sands – now it was blue and bronze, like those of the Thousand Sons who had accepted Tzeentch's hold over their Legion. Four horns had grown from his helmet as well, two rising high like crown, two spreading horizontally like a pair of tusks. With the Black Staff in his hand, Khayon's brother cut an imposing and dreadful figure, more similar to the archetypal sorcerer of ancient Terran legends than the warrior-scholar of illumination he truly was.

 _The Eye changes all mortals,_ sent Gyre in response to his idle thoughts. _It reshapes you so that no truth can remain hidden, as you wear your true nature upon your skin for all to see. You will change too, in time, master. All who look upon you will know of your power._

 _Is that a prophecy, wolf ? You know how I feel about those._

 _No prophecy. Merely the truth. I can smell the Pantheon's anticipation over what is to come. The Gods are watching, master. Those who survive this battle will be rewarded greatly._

 _I don't do this for glory or rewards, and neither do my brothers. We do this for our Legion._

A faint, mocking sensation came through Khayon's bond with his familiar, and he focused his attention on the actual meeting once more as Ahriman's helmet turned toward him. For a moment, he wondered if the First Captain could hear his communication with the daemonic she-wolf.

'I have spoken to our father,' said Ahriman, causing a sharp intake of breath among his brothers. 'The Crimson King is pleased with our return, and with the army we have brought with us. He has promised to honor the accord with the Iron Warriors and the Dark Mechanicum,' he continued, nodding toward the Warsmith and Arch-Heretek, 'as soon as we have dealt with the situation here.'

'That is all well and good,' replied the Warsmith, 'but it means nothing if we all die here. Mortarion's forces outnumber us by at least three to one – even if we add the ships defending the spaceport, they still have three ships for every two of us, and some of those are these Space Hulks.'

'Indeed,' approved Ahriman. With a gesture of his hand, the strategium's hololith sprung to life, projecting a three-dimensional image of the space around Sortiarus. Blue icons noted the ships loyal to the Fifteenth Legion, green those of the Plague Fleet, iron-grey those of the Iron Warriors and red for those of the Dark Mechanicum. 'But of all these ships, less than a tenth are Legion ships. The rest are rabble, drawn to this place by the whispers of the God of Plague. They obey Mortarion's orders, but they have no true loyalty to the Death Guard, or to each other.'

'So you really are going to go with that plan,' chuckled the Warsmith. 'You are, of course, aware that no one has ever achieved what you will need to accomplish to survive, let alone triumph ?'

'I am,' confirmed Ahriman, studying the arrangement of the Plague Fleet. 'But the difficulty and risks do not matter. All that matter is that the only way to win, to _really_ win here, isn't to simply defeat this fleet and force the Death Guard and their allies to flee from Sortiarus. They would simply regroup, gather more forces, and attack again. The empire of illumination we seek to create won't be able to rise under these conditions.'

Ahriman took a deep breath before continuing, his words echoing in the chamber :

'We will strike at the _Endurance._ We will banish Mortarion.'


	19. Changing the Game

Of all the battles Ignis had been a part of, none had been as beautiful as this one.

There was a beauty intricate to void warfare, to the cold calculations and patterns that brought death to thousands of foes from a distance the human mind struggled to imagine. Chance had no place there – only instinct and expertise. Decisions made in a fraction of second would only show their results minutes, even hours later. The power involved in space battles was also greater than that deployed in any other kind of warfare : missiles that could flatten cities and lance-beams that could crack the crust of planets were unleashed as a matter of course. This was the greatest kind of war ever fought by Mankind, where the will of one captain merged with the skills of thousands of crewmembers to direct a single vessel, while the mind of the fleet commander guided them all. To fight within a united fleet was to be part of something incredibly greater than oneself – and what a fleet it was that Ahriman had brought to Sortiarus and granted him command of.

The Dark Mechanicum, the Iron Warriors and the Thousand Sons – all were among the most tactically-minded factions of the Eye of Terror. Their fleets answered to his command with perfect precision, and from his post atop his Silver Tower he could see them all move in accordance to his will. In this moment, surrounded by the silence of the void, with only the shield surrounding the Silver Tower between his armored body and the infinite tides of space, he was more than Ignis, Exalted Sorcerer of the Thousand Sons Legion. He was the mind directing a vast body of tremendous power. He was the Master of Ruin. He was a god, more real and true than any of the countless powers that masqueraded as such within the Eye of Terror and beyond.

But even gods could be defeated, any army could be slain, and the Plague Fleet had had plenty of time to see the reinforcement fleet arrive. As Ahriman had said during the war council, there was no true chain of command in the Nurglite forces, only the overwhelming will of Mortarion. But the Death Lord was still a Primarch, one of the twenty greatest generals to have ever lived, and he had reacted as soon as the Thousand Sons had arrived. Leaving behind a third of his force to prevent the remaining Ninefold Keepers and the hundreds of ships still defending the passage to Sortiarus marked by the _Gift of Thot_ from interfering, Mortarion led the remaining two-third of his armada toward the newcomers. The _Endurance_ , his Gloriana-class battleship, led them, a void-behemoth whose hide was festering with disease and tumors, surrounded by a cloak of Warp-flies. The creatures had been spawned from the hives buried deep into the vessel after Magnus' sorcery had burned them away in the first moments of the war.

Like a grotesque honor guard, seven Space Hulks drifted alongside the _Endurance._ By their sheer size, they should have dwarfed the flagship, but the aura of the battleship instead made it clear that they were subservient to it, like hounds faithfully serving their master. The space around them was teeming with fighters. In Imperial fleets, such a deployement would have been ridiculously early – the fighter wings would have waited until they could actually reach the enemy – but the Nurglite fleet had been heavily blessed by their patron, and the fighters' pilots, now fused to their seats, required no more nurishment than their gunships needed refuelling.

Even with tens of thousands of kilometers still separating his Silver Tower from the enemy flagship, Ignis could sense Mortarion's presence aboard the _Endurance_. It was a stain in the Warp, a malevolent shadow of pestilence and despair that suffused the entire enemy fleet. That it was in this system at all was an insult to the Fifteenth Legion, for the Death Lord had, willingly or not, become the avatar of all that the Thousand Sons despised. Ignis was surprised at his own anger. It wasn't nearly enough to affect his judgement, but that it was here at all was surprising. He had thought himself detached from emotions. Truly, these were times of change for the Legion, and he wondered what other transformations the coming days would bring. But first, he must fulfill his part in Ahriman's plan, lest there be no future at all for the Thousand Sons.

By separating his fleet, Mortarion had abandoned most of his numerical advantage to prevent being stabbed in the back – a sound tactical move, and precisely the one Ignis had expected. The discipline of the coalition would help counter what remained of that advantage, but even then, any victory – by any side – would come at a terrible cost if it came down to a traditional battle. Fortunately, the Thousand Sons had never liked _traditional_ solutions.

The _Tlaloc_ held the key to the entire battle : Ahriman's kill-team. Accompanying the Arch-Sorcerer were Khayon and his familiar, Sanakht, Ashur-Kai. Along with the Exalted Sorcerers came not only Mekhari and Djedhor, Khayon's most trusted warriors, but also the Warsmith and Kroeger of the Iron Warriors. Forrix, to his dismay, had been tasked with remaining aboard the Fourth Legion's flagship in this battle, a void-leviathan of monstrous proportions that his master had enslaved and turned into a living vessel soon after their exile into the Eye of Terror.

If any group in the galaxy could defeat a Daemon Primarch, it was these nine beings. Together they held the power to destroy worlds in their hands, and they would need it, for Mortarion had held such power since his birth, and his transformation at the hands of the God of Decay had only increased his strength, though it had cost him dearly. Ignis wasn't sure they could do it – he wasn't privy to all of Ahriman's plans, having had other things to occupy his mind – but that wasn't his concern. His sole objective was to get them on board the enemy flagship, with as little cost to the coalition as was possible. They could take care of the rest themselves.

Teleportation aboard the _Endurance,_ be it by sorcery or technology, was tantamount to suicide. Mortarion's baleful presence infested the Sea of Souls, and any journey through the Warp, however short, would be a sentence to a fate far worse than death. The kill-team would have to be delivered in a more conventional manner. Right now, the nine were aboard a Stormbird in the _Tlaloc_ 's holds, waiting for his signal. The gunship had been specially prepared for this mission, its systems checked more than a hundred times for the smallest flaws, as had the runes that had been inscribed upon its surface. Its name was the _Shadow of Conspiracy_ , and during its time on Sortiarus it had evolved from mere machine into a living being, an entity that could be commanded only by those who bore the gene-seed of the Crimson King. Its spirit was that of a predator, but it was loyal to the Legion, and would fulfill its mission even if it cost it its existence.

In a few minutes, the fleets would reach each other's long range. Ignis checked his mental connections to his subordinate captains one last time, satisfied to find them all responsive and ready. Below his feet, he could also sense his Sorcerers readying the weapons of the Silver Tower. He saw the approaching fleet, knew the exact distance between every vessel. He waited, like a conductor seeking the perfect moment, and when it came, he sent a single word to every mind connected to his own :

 _Fire._

As one, every single ship of the coalition ship armed with long-range weaponry obeyed his command. Lance-beams burst from Legion ships, while Dark Mechanicum vessels unleashed dark-tech weapons that had been tested in the wars of the Rings of Artek-Ker. The barrage was focused not on the _Endurance,_ but on its escort. Hereteks and Sorcerers alike had spent hours studying the Space Hulks schematics, working together to divine the weaker spots of their structure.

Nearly every shot hit its mark, and three of the Space Hulks began to fall apart, the ruined vessels that composed them ripping free of each other and spinning around freely, smashing against the rest of the Plague Fleet. The other Space Hulks, along with the _Endurance,_ simply crashed through the debris, ignoring any damage they took as a result and cleaning the way for the rest of the fleet. But the debris also prevented them from opening fire immediately once the two fleets were close enough for their lower-grade weaponry. More to the point, it also forced the _Endurance_ to keep its shields down, trusting in its armor plating to prevent serious damage rather than risk the bubble of energy being exhausted by thousands of insignificant impacts. Once again, Ignis waited, a few interminable minutes ticking by as the two fleets drew ever closer, until Mortarion's flagship emerged from the debris field. Then, he sent :

 _Now._

Aboard the _Tlaloc_ , a hundred mind-linked Sorcerers heard his command, and unleashed the spell they had been working on since they had arrived to Sortiarus. In his second sight, Ignis saw a sphere of energy engulf Khayon's ship and the entire battle-group surrounding it. When the sphere vanished, so had every vessel that had been caught in it. A heartbeat later, a second sphere appeared right in the path of the _Endurance_ , and vanished to reveal the _Tlaloc_ and four Iron Warriors and twenty Dark Mechanicum cruisers, along with their escorts. Through sorcery, the Thousand Sons had displaced an entire battle-group. It had cost them : several of Ignis' battle-brothers aboard the _Tlaloc_ had collapsed of sheer exhaustion after such a massive teleportation. And from what Ignis could pick up from the shattered, terrified thoughts of their captains, five of the Dark Mechanicum vessels had not survived the transfert, and all others had been boarded by Nurgle-aligned Neverborn to some degree or another – confirming that attempting outright teleportation aboard the _Endurance_ would only have gotten the entire kill-team horribly murdered. But it had been worth it.

The teleported flotilla immediately fired upon the _Endurance_ while unleashing a stream of boarding pods, torpedoes, gunships, and some really strange living void-carriers designed by the genetic teams of the Dark Mechanicum. As soon as the flotilla had set loose its payload, they immediately began to turn back, seeking to escape the terrible retribution of the remaining Space Hulks and the rest of the Plague Fleet. The _Tlaloc,_ guided by the Anamnesis, was closest to the _Endurance_ , and Ignis saw the ship take several hits – but its shields held.

Among the transporters flew the _Shadow of Conspiracy_ , all but impossible to pick up among all the other boarding elements. The _Endurance_ opened fire with its short-range defenses, taking out dozens of boarding torpedoes and killing hundreds of Dark Mechanicum troops, but the Stormbird carrying the kill-team danced untouched through the hail of fire. It was as if the hand of Fate itself protected it, some shots passing mere meters away from its hull. Finally, it plunged, vanishing through an opening in the flank of its gigantic target – a hangar bay, open to the void, destroying several enemy fighters who had survived the hail of debris by seeking refuge within their mothership and were only now emerging again.

Having confirmed that his brothers had successfully entered the enemy flagship, Ignis focused his whole intellect on the void battle once more, determined to make sure the equations of war were resolved in favor of the Thousand Sons and their allies. Hundreds of plague-infested ships were joining the fray, and already he could sense a handful of Dark Mechanicum vessels being destroyed, like herd animals fallen upon by packs of jackals. He only spent time for a single sent thought throught the tumult of the grand confrontation, directed at Ahriman's own mind from his own :

 _Good luck, brother._

A single sentence was sent back, before Ahriman's mind vanished from Ignis' awareness completely, the Arch-Sorcerer's aura completely covered by that of the Death Lord's flagship :

 _For the Legion._


	20. Boarding the Endurance

The inside of the _Endurance_ was something right out of a nightmare. The floor of the landing bay in which the _Shadow of Conspiracy_ touched down was made of living, pulsing, infected flesh, covered by a thick layer of calluses. Wherever Death Guard mutated fighters landed, giant arteries burst from the ground, connecting with the voidcrafts and refilling them with an unknown liquid. The glimpses of rusted metal that could be seen through the cancerous growths somehow made it worse, reminding any onlooker of the majesty the ship had once possessed.

Even though Khayon had sealed his armor, breathing only recycled air, he felt as if he could still smell the putrescent stench of this place. Normally, the landing bay's space should have been airless, since it was directly opened to the void – but this was no normal ship, and the laws of physics applied even less here than they did in the rest of the Eye of Terror. Hundreds of menials without breathing apparatus ran in all direction, panicked by the violent shaking of the ship as more boarding torpedoes impacted it, and even more so as they noticed the intruders in their midst. His audio receptors could pick up distant, muffled alarms, the vox-speakers trying to blare them being muffled by the infested flesh that had grown over them.

'This ship is a dump,' he said as he went down the _Shadow'_ s boarding ramp along with the rest of the kill-team. Out of respect for their Iron Warriors allies, he spoke out loud over the shared vox-link rather than send his thoughts through the aether. He had no doubts the Warsmith would have been able to hear him, and likely reply in the same manner, but Kroeger's soul radiated the heat of the Blood God's fires, and he would not appreciate being psychically touched.

'The power of the Plague God is strong here,' replied Ashur-Kai, sending a stream of lightning into a band of hunched, diseased creatures as he did so. 'We knew it would be. Just be on your guard, Khayon – there is no telling what traps might await us here.'

'Indeed,' Ahriman cut in. 'Our target is the bridge – that will be where Mortarion is, directing his fleet. Don't let anything slow us down; speed is essential to our success.'

The kill-team tore its way through the hangar, ripping any opposition apart with ease. Kroeger fought with a chainaxe and a bolt pistol, while the Warsmith cut his foes to ribbons with two sets of claws the length of a Space Marine's forearm. They soon left the vast chamber behind them, leaving the _Shadow of Conspiracy_ to take care of itself – the gunship's predatory spirit would not hesitate to use its weapons on anyone who tried to get close to it, which was good since it was likely to be their only way off the ship. The corridors of the _Endurance_ were even worse than the hangar bay had been. The ship's lights had gone off long ago, replaced by torches set on the walls at irregular intervals by the vessel's mortal population, which only gave off sickly, yellow light. Corpses were fused to the walls, their arms reaching out in a last, desperate attempt to free themselves, their cadaverous faces locked in expressions of horror and, in a few cases, religious ecstasy. There were flies and other vermin everywhere, and each armored footstep ended in a _crunch_ as several of the creatures were crushed beneath ceramite boots.

As they made progress, resistance increased. The _Endurance_ only had a fraction of its original complement of thousands of Astartes left, but it had gained other guardians to compensate. Plague Marines and daemons of Nurgle rushed to confront them, as did entire swarms of deluded cultists, hoping to gain their god's favour by striking a blow against the champions of his enemy. Fortunately, the kill-team wasn't the only boarding party on the _Endurance_ , and the other groups did their best to draw the defenders' attention to themselves.

Hundreds of Endless Ones led by Hollow Kings had been dispatched, the warlords' sensory feeds specially modified so that they believed themselves to be leading knights in armor in the lair of a great and terrible beast. Each boarding party had received its own instructions, fighting to reach a specific target – if they could inflict damage to the ship and diminish the threat it posed to the coalition fleet, then it would be a welcome bonus to the diversion they already provided. The Dark Mechanicum forces were vastly outnumbered, and likely wouldn't survive this action, but that was an acceptable sacrifice considering the goal. To face a Daemon Primarch aboard his flagship and have any hope of victory, you had to be ready to pay an appropriate price.

Kroeger laughed as he killed, the only one of the group to do so – Gyre enjoyed the hunt, but she could only send her amusement through her bond to Khayon, not express it out loud. Sanakht fought at the Iron Warrior's side, his two swords dancing around the guards of his foes and striking with preternatural speed and power. According to the swordsman, after fighting alongside Lucius of the Emperor's Children, he could fight with anyone. The Warsmith was part of the vanguard too, as were Mekhari and Djedhor, wielding force swords and cutting through the tide of enemy like harvesting scythes. Behind them were Khayon, Ashur-Kai and Ahriman, firing with their bolters and psychic powers, taking care to spare the latter in preparation for their confrontation with the Death Lord. As for Gyre, she darted in and out of the omnipresent shadows, her fur coated in the blood of the slain. Khayon wasn't sure how she could use her teleportation abilities in this place – surely Mortarion's aura should affect her just as much, if not more, than the Thousand Sons.

 _The chosen son of Nurgle has no hold over me,_ she replied, sensing his curiosity. _This might be his lair, but I am an invader, not a subject, and the shadows do not belong to him – only that which he can perceive with his shrouded eyes._

That made about as much sense as anything ever did when the Neverborn were concerned, and Khayon let the matter go. A squad of Death Guards appeared around the next corner – twelve of them, led by a towering brute holding a rusted power maul that crackled with greenish energy. The champion died first, his helm split in two along with his skull by a blow of Kroeger's chainaxe. Then Sanakht stepped in, his blades aiming for the heads of the next Plague Marines – the only way to be sure they were dead was to remove the brain, and even then it was best to be thorough in doing so. The Warsmith had less care in his blows, simply tearing the Death Guards to shreds to the point that even their vaunted vitality couldn't keep them from the grave. Khayon and the rest of the rear guard did not even have the time to shoot before the entire enemy squad was dead.

'This is hardly a challenge,' laughed Kroeger, though Khayon could hear the frustration behind the bloodlust. 'None of these fools are a match for us !'

'We will reach the bridge soon,' replied the Warsmith. 'You will have all the challenge you crave then, brother. For now, the ease of our progress simply means Ahriman's plan is working.'

To Khayon's light surprise, his brother didn't react to their ally's words, and he turned to glance at the Arch-Sorcerer, risking a brief opening of his sixth sense to check nothing was amiss. It was difficult to see anything through the shroud of decay that surrounded everything aboard this ship, but he managed to get a look at his brother's aura, which burned bright enough to be visible even through the miasma of corruption. Ahriman was shielding them, spreading his power to prevent Mortarion's corruption from reaching any member of the kill-team. Screams heard over the vox had revealed that several of the other boarding teams had already succumbed to the _Endurance_ 's aura, the minds of the Hollow Kings shattered by the unholy taint. If any of the Endless Ones had also succumbed, they had done so in complete vox-silence. So far, Khayon had thought that he and the other Astartes were simply strong-willed enough to ignore the corruption, but it seemed Ahriman had not been willing to risk it. And judging by the pressure he could feel on the other side of the psychic shield, Ahriman had been right. Despite being as fearless as any Space Marine, Khayon couldn't help a shiver as he realized what the constant assault on their psyche meant :

Mortarion knew they were here, knew that they were coming. Khayon had known they would not catch the Daemon Primarch by surprise – the mere idea was ridiculous. But the fact that he knew enough of their position to assail them with his aura, yet did not send more forces to block their way … that was slightly worrying. It meant that the Death Lord was confident he could kill them all.

They reached the bridge about one hour after they had departed the hangar bay. From what Khayon could hear on the vox, the void battle was still raging outside. The fleet guarding the _Gift of Thot_ had launched its own attack on the elements of the Plague Fleet left to hold it in place, with the Ninefold Keepers joining the fray. Fragmentary communications from the surface of Sortiarus itself indicated that the invading forces there had heard about the coalition fleet arriving, and had launched a massive, simultaneous attack on the Thousand Sons' cities across the entire world. The Fifteenth Legion and its allies on the planet was unleashing everything they had, determined to hold and cleanse their world once and for all. There was even word that Magnus had left the Tower of the Cyclops to join the fray, though Khayon wasn't sure that was more than wishful thinking.

Even if Mortarion hadn't made an active effort to stop them, the bridge was still well-defended. The corpses of several boarding parties laid in pieces before the gate, their metal already rusting while feeding tendrils tried to pry them apart to get to the remaining biological matter within. Khayon was put in mind of some impossibly vast, all-consuming leviathan, seeking nothing but to devour all life it encountered to sustain itself. The image was a disquieting one, and the Exalted Sorcerer banished it, focusing on the battle ahead instead.

The Legionaries and mortals guarding the bridge were no match for the kill-team, however. Within seconds, the Thousand Sons conjured a wall of sorcerous fire, turning their barricades to ash and crippling the mortals, before the party's vanguard crashed into the survivors, tearing them apart with contemptuous ease. Once they were finished, Khayon reached out with his mind, and, using his telekinetic powers, simply battered the heavy, adamantium-reinforced gate open. Beyond the broken door, the bridge of the _Endurance_ was revealed.

A crew of living corpses manned the stations of the Death Guard's flagship. Hundreds of starved, pale-skinned creatures toiled in the darkness of the bridge's trenches, fused to their work station by augmetics and mutations alike. Khayon could see their souls, weakling, diseased fires trapped within their bodies, unable to die yet also unable to live. They were shackled to their duty forever, bound here by the power of the very ship they had served all their lives. It was an horrible fate, and Khayon's hand tightened around _Saern'_ s haft as the image of his sister flashed in his mind.

 _She is not like them,_ he told himself. _She chose her fate, and her mind remains. She is not a slave. She is the one in control. She has to be._

Seven Plague Marines in Terminator armor guarded the bridge, turned to face the intruders. Each of them wore an identical suit of war-plate, and a power scythe. The runic markings upon their armor were exactly the same, engraved with a care and precision unlike anything Khayon had seen before in the servants of Nurgle. This was the Deathshroud, Mortarion's old brotherhood of bodyguards, warriors of the Death Guard who had proven their worth and been chosen by their Primarch himself for that duty. All that they had been before, down to their very name, had been erased upon their ascension to this prestigious duty. And as had been the case during the Great Crusade and the Heresy, where the Deathshroud was, so too was their master.

There, at the center of the bridge, where the command throne would have been in a more ordinary vessel stood Mortarion, the Death Lord, Daemon Primarch of Nurgle and master of the Fourteenth Legion. He was tall, taller than the Warsmith, taller than the Terminators surrounding him in a protecting circle, and his presence seemed to fill the entire bridge, crushing all others by its sheer intensity. His power armor was rusted and leaking fluids that killed even the plague-ridden flesh of the bridge's floor, and it was covered by a tattered cloak of pale, dirty cloth that teemed with Warp-born vermin. In his hands, Mortarion held his great scythe, _Silence_ , its blade corroded and dripping with toxins. The upper half of his face was obscured by a hood that cast unnatural shadows upon his visage. He was the incarnation of Mankind's collective fear of death, the Grim Reaper of ancient myth made manifest. But that legend had been twisted, perverted by the power of the God of Decay. While Death was neutral, neither benevolent nor malevolent, something not to seek but neither to fear, Mortarion was a vision of horror fit to break the mind of all but the strongest-willed mortals. He was the maddenning fear of death that drove people into the arms of his patron god, transforming the survival instinct present in any living being into an obsession for immortality.

As Khayon looked upon him, joyous, hideous, _broken_ laughter filled his mind, the sounds of the Garden of Nurgle itself. He had to rise into the Enumerations to stop himself from joining into the demented giggling, shielding his soul from the corruption. Near him, his brothers also tensed, while Kroeger shook his head as if to shake off an unpleasant thought and the Warsmith seemed completely unaffected. Mortarion seemed to notice their unease, and his lips cracked in a twisted parody of a smile, revealing rotting teeth and blackened gums.

' **Nurgle told me you would come, Ahriman,'** said the Daemon Primarch. His voice was a mix of the grim, slightly wheezy tenor it had been before Mortarion's transformation, and of a chorus of other, buzzing voices, all overlapping in discordant harmonics. **'He knew the God of Lies would not keep you from sailing to your Legion's help once more. Tzeentch favors you highly, you know. Of all the mortals who bear his mark, none are as precious to him as you.'**

'I serve no god,' replied Ahriman, in the tone of someone who had already said the same thing many time, and expected to say it again. 'I only serve the Legion and its dream.'

The sound of tumbling tombstones emanated from Mortarion's throat, and it took a moment to Khayon to recognize it as a laugh. The total absence of joy in the sound had thrown him off.

' **Keep telling yourself that, for as long as you can. And you,'** continued Mortarion, turning his head toward the Warsmith. **'Why are you here, champion of Ruin ? You, who serve nothing but the principle of destruction itself, would debase yourself to becoming the Thousand Sons' lackey ? What would Perturabo said if he could see you ?'**

'I am here at the Lord of Iron's command,' growled the Warsmith, not intimidated by the Death Lord's aura of daemonic power, even if it greatly surpassed his own. 'By his word are the Fourth and Fifteenth allies once more. His motives are not for the likes of you to know, Death Lord.'

Again, Mortarion gave his low, mirthless laugh, before looking over at the entire kill-team.

' **An impressive gathering of fools,'** he mocked. **'Do you truly think you can best me, Ahriman ? You might be Tzeentch's favorite puppet, but** ** _I_** **am the greatest champion of the Lord of Decay ! I am the avatar of his power in this place, where reality and the power of the Warp meet. You are nothing but a slave, too blind to see your chains ! You. Cannot. Banish. Me !'**

Mortarion raised his scythe, and the Deathshroud answered his silent command. The kill-team raised their weapons, while the Sorcerers finally released the power they had been holding in.

And that was how they started to fight. That was when they started to die.

* * *

AN : I tried to calculate the point value of the kill-team, to justify to myself if no one else how they could tear through the defenders of the Endurance so easily. But then I found out, to my stupor, that the Exalted Sorcerers are actually worth less points than a normal Sorcerer (89 to 90 points respectively). So, I now realize that my version of the Exalted Sorcerers is much more powerful than the canon one, and I am wondering just what the hell the sons of Magnus have been doing for the last ten thousand years.

Anyway, the epic confrontation with Mortarion will come next. I look forward to writing it ! I have been thinking about it ever since the Rings' arc ended.

Zahariel out.


	21. The True Horror of the Endurance

AN : the next part isn't finished yet, but here is something I wrote yesterday after Jaenera Targeryen, one of my beta-readers for the RH, said the last chapter wasn't making the _Endurance_ scary enough, which I took as a challenge. Enjoy ! Mouahahahahahaha !

* * *

 _The following document was recovered on the_ Endurance _by a Dark Mechanicum boarding party, in the final hours of the siege of Sortiarus by the legions of Nurgle. Dark Magos Illukoarth, against orders, chose to accompany his cybernetic warriors into battle, to witness their performance himself and examine the Warp-born corruption of the Death Guard's venerable flagship. It was translated from Nostraman to Gothic, and recorded in the archives of the Fifteenth Legion._

My name is Askaran Telem, and I write this in the hope that, once I am dead, some trace of my existence will endure. A faint hope, perhaps, but the Thousand Sons have taught us that any hope, however insignificant, is better than none. And I certainly need all the hope I can get right now.

I was an officer on the Astartes cruiser _Leonized Murder_ , from the Night Lords Legion. My master was lord Jaeker, and, like me, he was born on Nostramo – though, unlike me, he was born in the lower districts, albeit of course such things mean little among the Night Lords. When the word reached him that the Thousand Sons had risen and were building an empire, he brought his warband to Sortiarus, seeking purpose amidst the meaningless madness of the Eye of Terror. For months we fought around the _Gift of Thot,_ keeping the planet below safe, until the _Leonized Murder_ was lost. The Death Guards came aboard our vessel, slaughtering our masters and countless thousands of my people. Those of us who survived were herded off the ship, and brought here instead, in this pestilent nightmare of a vessel. I know, from snippets of conversation I heard from my captors as they carried us over, that this is the _Endurance_ , the flagship of the fleet we were battling.

I do not know why I or any of the others were brought here. They did not chain us, nor did they force us into any kind of labor as I had expected they would, as the warriors of the _Leonized Murder_ had done countless times during the rebellion and the Legion Wars. Instead, they just led us into the depths of the ship and vanished. For hours we waited, hundreds of us all huddled together, not sure whether or not they would return, but unwilling to leave the dimly lit area and wander into the fleshy tunnels beyond, for we could hear strange noises coming from them. Then, the beasts attacked, and there was nothing but panic and mayhem. I managed to escape, fleeing blindly into the corridors, hearing the terrified screams and the sound of tearing flesh behind me, the gruesome sounds granting me access to reserves of strength I did not know I possessed.

Darkness holds sway in most of these tunnels, but there are pockets of light too, though they seem to exist solely to make the horrors surrounding me more obvious. Beasts of rotting flesh and yellow teeth haunt the shadows, and some of them display all too human traits, making me fear what shall happen to me if I remain too long here in the dark. Daemons also stalk this place, unhindered, feeding upon the flesh and soul of the prisoners brought to them by the Death Guard. I have glimpsed many of them from afar : pale-skinned, bloated creatures with numerous spindly limbs, hanging from the ceiling and waiting for prey to come nearby; worm-like creatures burrowing deep into the mounds of refuse that fill entire room and burt through the surface in an eruption of detritus; monstrous insect that are only half-material, phasing through walls, walking upon planes of existence I cannot perceive. And everywhere I go, there is never at least one corpse in sight, rotting and festering, host to a grotesque hive of vermin feeding upon it and laying their eggs inside the remains. In what I believe to have once been an hydroponic chamber, where the crew's sustenance was grown, I found a monstrous farm, where the corpses of the slain were arranged in neat rows, and tended to by one-eyed, horned humanoids that, for a wonder, did not even seem to notice me. These Neverborn were like gardeners, cultivators in a sinister field, caring for a dark harvest.

Most grotesque of all was an entity I only saw from afar, and that single glimpse was enough to send me running in the other direction, my wits only returning to me much later, while I was laying in a pool of foetid water, shocked dumb by what I had witnessed. The beast was enormous, filling up an entire room that must have been more than a hundred meters long. Its bloated belly filled that space, pulsing with red the color of diseased blood. Its mouth laid at ground level, a long, hollow needle-fang, and I saw a couple of gaunt humanoids bring before it one of the prisoners, screaming all the way. They impaled the poor soul onto the monster's fang, and it drained him of his blood, adding but an insignificant amount to the quantity stored in the horror's abhorent abdomen. Then the true terror of the creature was revealed to me, as its victim staggered back to his feet, now as gaunt and wasted as his captors, and stumbled out of the room with them, searching for fresh victims to bring to this blasphemous god. It was more than I could take, and I ran, uncaring of the noise my footsteps made. In that moment, I think I would have welcomed death at the hands of any of the countless abominations that infest these tunnels, rather than face the same dreadful fate.

The walls are not made of metal but skin, with sacs of pus that burst at seemingly random intervals, covering their surroundings with an acidic, foul-smelling concoction of hell. The ground beneath my feet is soft, but often contains sharp, dirt-covered blades that cut through my shoes and leave infected cuts on my skin. The noise of flies and crawling vermin is omnipresent, denying me all hope of peace. The only times I can sleep is when I am so exhausted that even that horrendous noise fades into the background, but slumber brings no respite : all I see in my dreams are more of the horrors I see awake, lit brightly by some unseen, greenish sun whose unholy light melts the flesh off my bones and send me screaming back to my weary body, too scared to go back to sleep until another cycle of exhaustion is complete.

I have tried to escape, but if this is truly the _Endurance,_ then I am trapped aboard a floating city, filled with naught but monsters and plague. Every breath I take tastes of decaying flesh festering in excrement, and the mere act of filling my lungs feels like thousands of small, sharp blades are cutting my insides apart. Every beat of my heart is painful, and seems weaker than the last. I do not recall how long I have been trapped here – days, weeks … or is it just hours ? I remember my hunger growing so strong, I ate from one of the fresher carcasses I encountered. It was too damaged for me to recognize what it had been, but I fear, from the taste of it, that it might have been one of my fellow captives, brought here alongside me, or perhaps before or later.

Still, I cling to the words of the Thousand Sons Sorcerer who came aboard the _Leonized Murder_ all this time ago, when Jaeker offered his loyalty to the Fifteenth Legion. There is always hope. There is always hope. Things might seem hopeless now, but surely deliverance shall come. My soul belongs to Tzeentch, the Great Changer, Architect of Fate, and when I die it shall go to Him and be freed of this monstrous realm of abnormal growths and pustulent diseasea. I do not fear my death, for I am one of the chosen, I can feel it in the heat spreading through my body and brain, the divine fire that cleanse and purify, and now …

And now … Now I see. The Thousand Sons lied to us. This is the truth that the Death Guard brought us here to learn. There is no hope – there is only the inevitable downfall and ruin of all things. Death and decay await us all, but in death there is rebirth too, and that is the supreme and only mercy in this galaxy of the lost and the damned. After all, are not the walls of this great vessel teeming with new and wondrous life ? Is not every corpse I passed in my wanderings a garden, full of millions of invisible lifeforms, granting sustenance to an entire host of new creation ?

The Nurglites knew we would die here, but we would also have died had we remained aboard the _Leonized Murder_ as it drifted into the void, its life-support systems failing. Our bodies would have hung into the cold, freezing void, sterile and wasted. By bringing us here, they have granted us salvation, for though we shall perish, new life shall flourish within our corpses, and through it I shall live on, forever. I welcome my imminent demise, for I now understand that it is merely a part of the cycle, bringing me closer to the divine. Blessed be Nurgle, He who showed me the truth, and turned me away from the lies of Tzeentch the Deceiver, Tzeentch the False …


	22. A Primarch's Power

Khayon's first instinct was to call for reinforcements.

They had made no plan for the actual fight against Mortarion – there was no way to prepare for fighting a Primarch, for they would see through any tactic you planned and turn it against you. It had been an unspoken agreement that they would each act in the manner they thought best. Khayon, though, had had a plan – not something that could actually hurt Mortarion, but something that, at least, could buy them the time they needed to deal with his escort. In the fraction of second before the battle began in earnest, he sent his plan through the minds of all of his allies, feeling Kroeger's mind roar in pain and indignation at the intrusion. Then, without waiting for them to reply with agreement or disagreement, he drew a card from the tarot deck hanging at his waist and threw it on the living floor of the _Endurance_ 's bridge, directly in front of Mortarion.

'Get clear !' he shouted as smoke began to pour from the card. 'Focus on the Deathshroud !'

The members of the vanguard heeded his call, moving to the side to focus on the Terminators. Mortarion stopped his advance, looking down at the card with what could only be described as bleak amusement on his shadowed features. He wasn't concerned that any Neverborn Khayon could summon would be a threat to him. Good. Even if he was most likely right, this arrogance would still cost him time, and even a few seconds could make all the difference. Next to Khayon, Ashur-Kai was sending streams of energy toward the Deathshrouds, while Ahriman remained immobile, drawing more power within him that Khayon would have believed it was possible to hold. He couldn't waste time trying to divine what the Arch-Sorcerer had planned, though : all his focus was needed to control the creature he had just unleashed. He would need it.

In the days that had followed the casting of the Rubric, all of the new Exalted Sorcerers had explored the new limits of their increased powers. Khayon, who had grown an interest in daemonology soon after the Razing of Prospero, had pushed his skills farther and farther. Many powerful Neverborn had been attracted to Sortiarus, drawn by the renewed power of the Fifteenth Legion. Some had been tolerated, welcomed as uneasy allies, but others had been hunted and either banished or captured. Khayon had been one of these hunters, and he had bound to his service several of the most powerful daemons he had encountered during that time. The one he had brought forth to face Mortarion was the most dangerous of them all.

Tens of thousands of years ago, during the Antiquity of Old Earth, a great city had burned. War had been brought to the city's walls by a prince's folly, and the machinations of cruel and selfish powers masquerading as gods. For ten years, foreign armies had laid siege to the city, and great champions had fought one another, writing their legends in the blood of slain foes. All this time the people of the city had endured, despite the warnings of the priests and seers that told them that doom was inevitable.

When at last the city fell, it was not to strength of arms, but to treachery, as its besiegers deceived the defenders into thinking they had withdrawn, abandoning a fruitless war to return to their own lands. The vanished army left behind it a wodden behemoth, a figure of the sacred beast of the sea god the city's people worshiped. The king of the city saw the figure and thought it to be a tribute, an offering from the defeated to the victorious, in the hope of gaining the favor of the sea god so that their journey back home would be easier. He ordered the city's gates opened, and the wodden construction was brought in, while the people of the city reveled in the end of the long siege.

But this was a trick. In the middle of the night, with half the population of the city in a drunken stupor, the belly of the wodden beast opened, revealing the warriors concealed within. They butchered the guards who were still at their post and threw the city's gates open, before signalling to the army that, far from retreating, had simply hidden some distance away, moving back as soon as the sun had set. Unopposed, the horde poured into the city, driven mad by a decade of siege, and the carnage began. Tens of thousands of men, women and children were slain, the survivors reduced to slavery. The sacred temples were burned, their relics plundered, their priests cast down. The despairing cries of the fallen raised toward the crimson sky, but no salvation came. When dawn came, the city had been destroyed so thoroughly that it would take millennia before its location was discovered again with any certainty.

However, not all traces of the terrible events of that night disappeared. The legend of the war would endure, becoming one of the greatest stories known to Mankind. And on the other side of the veil, in the infinite tides of the Sea of Souls, all the fear and anger and despair of destroyed Troy coalesced, like calling to like. The countless Neverborn bred by this atrocity devoured one another in the pyre of their creation until, at last, only one remained. This Daemon Lord would unleash its wrath upon the one responsible for the deception that had resulted in the city's downfall, pursuing him for years and denying him the return to his homeland that he had craved so much. And, in time, it would inspire the descendants of the scattered survivors to build an empire based upon conquest and domination, which would avenge their long-dead ancestors.

The Neverborn had been brought into existence in an epoch before the Dark Gods had risen from the formless Warp, though the Empyrean cares little for the normal flow of time. Born of war and revenge, it had joined the ranks of the Blood God's legions when Khorne had first bellowed his hate to the universe, emerging from Humanity's blood-soaked battlefields. And, for millennia, it had haunted the nightmares of sentient beings, seeking to punish those who won their battles through trickery rather than honest confrontation. It had been Ahriman's manipulation of the first host gathered by the Ruinous Powers to attack Sortiarus that had brought the creature to the Planet of the Sorcerers, thirsting for the lifeblood of the Arch-Sorcerer. It had never reached Ahriman – Khayon had confronted it in the empty plains before the Thousand Sons' greatest settlement, learning its true name and binding it to his service, though it had required every iota of power he possessed.

Now the daemon emerged from its bindings, released with its full power. It was as tall as Mortarion, clad in bronze armor of antique design, just like the defenders of the doomed city had worn as they tried to defend their people from the killers who had infiltrated their walls. Emblazoned upon its chestplate was an eagle, the emblem of the empire it had inspired to rise. Its face was a death mask of the same material, frozen in the expression of terror and agony that so many had worn as they perished by fire and blade, with two living eyes in the mask's orbits, staring endlessly into a future of deaths that could not be prevented, just like the city's seers had been unable to prevent the downfall of their kin. Its flesh was crimson, scorched raw by the flames that consumed the city, and in its right hand it held a trident, the weapon of the sea god who had failed to save his people from their doom. It called itself the Dirus Ulixes, the Cruel Odysseus, named after the treacherous king whose advice led to the city's burning and whose soul it tormented for the rest of his life, before claiming it upon his death and devouring it wholesale, claiming the warlord's cunning and strength along with his name. Thanks to it, it had endured for all the ages that followed, through the wars between gods and the eternal shifting of the Sea of Souls.

' **I will feed,'** it declared in a voice made of dying screams and cruel laughter. **'I will kill all traitors and deceivers, all whose hands are soaked in the blood of the innocent !'**

Mortarion watched the daemon rise, something like appreciation flickering in his aura for a fraction of a second before the creature's power. Then he struck, _Silence_ moving faster than it seemed possible for a being of Mortarion's size to move. The Dirus Ulixes blocked the blow with its trident, and roared its hatred in the face of the Daemon Primarch. Mortarion laughed, and pressed on, _Silence_ 's decaying touch spreading its influence over the Neverborn's antique weapon.

' **Do not fret, warrior of Khorne,'** he said. **'Let me release you from this witch's bondage.'**

The only reply of the daemon was to roar once more, and punch Mortarion in the chest with its free hand. The strength of the blow cracked the Death Lord's armor and forced him to take a step back, while also shaking the entire bridge. Freeing its trident, it struck for the crack, and Mortarion didn't move, letting the three-pronged weapon bury itself into his guts. Foul ichor poured through the openings in his armor, carving deep holes in the deck's floor – but the Daemon Primarch didn't appear to feel any pain at the blow. With a chuckle, he lifted his left hand and placed it upon the Dirus Ulixes' screaming mask, like a priest annointing a supplicant.

Khayon's mind was aflame with the Dirus Ulixes' rage flooding through his bond with the Neverborn. It was all he could do to maintain his sanity – such was the cost of summoning such a creature to his aid. Keeping it under control required exactly as much effort as binding it in the first place. The daemon's fury flared even hotter at Mortarion's touch, and it struggled to pull its trident free, but the Primarch's entrails were locking it in place, the rot festering in them already corroding the eternal weapon. Sorcerous energies, the raw power of Nurgle, poured from Mortarion's palm, searing its way through the very essence of the daemon, taking apart the threads of its existence. The Khornate daemon fell to its knees, the trident's handle falling from his grasp, hanging from the Daemon Primarch's chest.

' **Do not resist,'** repeated Mortarion. **'I will grant you freedom from the chains of this witch who has enslaved you. It might be painful, but what is pain compared to release ?'**

' **Destroyer of cities,'** sneered the Dirus Ulixes. **'Puppet of ruin and decay. You cannot give freedom, for you are a slave yourself, doing the bidding of your god, blindly believing its lies as well as your own. Only in blood is there truth, only in slaughter is there** ** _honesty !_** **'**

Amazingly, the daemon forced itself back to its feet. Mortarion's mouth curled, and he began to close his fist on his enemy's head, causing the bronze death-mask to crack under his grip. The Dirus Ulixes struck, both hands closing in around its trident's haft and, with the last of its strength, pushing it deeper into the Death Lord's belly until its three points burst from his back, draped in diseased entrails and tainted blood. Then Mortarion's fist closed, the mask exploded in a shower of metal shards, and the Dirus Ulixes screeched as its essence was forced back into the Warp.

Khayon stumbled, his mind reeling from the backlash of the brutal banishment, his body burning with pain at the sudden severance of the psychic bond and the effort of the summoning. If not for his power armor reinforcing his weakened limbs, he would have fallen to his knees. But he did not, and looked around to see how his comrades had used the time he had bought them.

Four of the seven Deathshroud had fallen, though they had taken a toll. None of the vanguard were uninjured, and Sanakht's left arm laid upon the deck, still holding one of his sword. It had been severed at the shoulder, the injury burning with the fire the Exalted Sorcerer had conjured to prevent the contagion of the tainted power scythes seeping into his body. Gyre's fur was ragged and torn, black blood leaking from the wounds her body had taken. At Khayon's side, Ashur-Kai breathed heavily, his pale face marred by dark veins as he struggled against the unnatural pressure of the _Endurance_ 's aura of decay and despair. Only Ahriman stood untouched and unbloodied, his soul-fire burning bright enough to blind as he prepared to unleash the power he had gathered unto him.

' **And now,'** laughed Mortarion, still completely without any kind of joy, **'you will all experience the true nature of despair.'**


	23. What Can Be Done

The Death Lord advanced toward the three Exalted Sorcerers slowly, confidently. Ahriman saw Khayon rush forward, his wolf-marked ax held high, Ashur-Kai following, his staff wreathed in dark lightning. Mekhari and Djedhor also disengaged from their battle against the remaining Deathshroud, moving to assist their commander, their force swords burning with sorcerous flame. They all struck together, but none of their blows managed to penetrate the Warp-wrought armor of the Daemon Primarch – and then he started to fight back.

A single swing of _Silence_ caught the two Sorcerers in the chest, tearing through their armor and ripping into their organs. They fell in silence, their bodies shutting down immediately from the shock of the many, many toxins the daemon weapon had injected into their ruined metabolism. _Silence's_ return strike shattered Khayon's ax and continued on, the weapon's haft crashing into his helmet and sending him to the ground. Then, with his left hand, Mortarion punched a hole through Ashur-Kai's chest, and the albino fell, his two hearts pulverized by the blow. Khayon's wolf burst from her master's shadow, seeking the throat of his enemy, but a kick send her flying, spine broken and flesh torn by the clawed feet of Mortarion.

As the Daemon Primarch continued, barely slowed down by the casual dispatch, agony bloomed within Ahriman's skull, eclipsing even the sorrow he felt at the brutal death of his brothers. He could feel Mortarion's power, spreading across the sorcerous bonds that existed between all Thousand Sons, corroding the fabric of the Rubric itself. The Death Lord was using the three Thousand Sons he had just killed – Khayon still lived, Ahriman could sense it – as entry points into the network of aetheric currents. Ahriman's masterwork was fighting back, drawing power from the thousands of Legionaries protected by it, but like a disease, the Death Lord's touch was spreading. Through the Rubric, Ahriman could sense the anguish of his brothers as they all felt the assault upon the spell woven through their very genetic code.

' **What can be done,'** rasped the Daemon Primarch, **'can be undone. Your spell will fail, little witch. Your brothers will fall to the curse of their own powers once more, as is fitting.'**

'No,' Ahriman managed to growl through clenched teeth. It was taking all of his power and concentration to contain the spreading corruption, but he would not let it take root. He would _not_ have his great work undone. He would not let the past doom return, destroying all that they had accomplished. He would _not_ let the dream die again. He was the master of the Rubric, its architect and the keystone in the whole sorcerous construction. He drew upon the power he had gathered to strike at Mortarion, abandoning the idea of attacking him in favor of saving his Legion.

' **You struggle in vain,'** continued Mortarion, shaking his head. **'I am the judgement for your Legion's arrogance. I cannot be defeated, not by you, not by anyone.'**

' _You are wrong.'_

The statement, full of defiance, came from behind the Daemon Primarch. Mortarion turned his head, and saw Khayon rising to his feet, the shattered pieces of _Saern_ slipping through his fingers. His helmet was gone too, laying on the ground where the Exalted Sorcerer had discarded it. Khayon's face, so Prosperine and noble, was filled with a supreme calm and … serenity that Ahriman couldn't understand. Neither, it seemed, could Mortarion. The assault on the Rubric abated slightly as the Daemon Primarch's attention shifted partially to Khayon.

' **And what makes you think so, little witch ?'**

'You have no right to judge us,' spat Khayon. 'You have no right to judge _anyone_. The Dirus Ulixes was right – you are nothing but a slave, following the destiny laid before him. But _we_ are not. _We_ make our own destiny in this cruel galaxy. _We_ are masters of our own fates !'

He shouted the last words, and power burst from him in complex sorcerous weaves. Ahriman saw Mortarion tense, prepared for an attack, but the spell wasn't targeting him. Instead, it engulfed the motionless bodies of Ashur-Kai, Mekhari and Djedhor, flowing through the threads of the Rubric bound to their souls. The shades of the three dead Thousand Sons had not yet departed, caught in the fabric of the great spell, and before Ahriman's wide eyes, they were forced back into their corpses, while the damage Mortarion's scythe had inflicted to their flesh was healing, as if time itself was going backward. Never before had the Arch-Sorcerer witnessed such a feat of regeneration, and in that moment he understood that the Rubric had done far more than protect the sons of Magnus from the curse of the flesh-change.

Rasping breaths came over the vox from the three lying Legionaries, and their bodies arched as they suddenly found themselves back into the world of the living. Battle across the bridge stopped, as both the Iron Warriors, Sanakht and the remaining Deathshroud turned to witness the impossible resurrection.

' **You dare !'** roared Mortarion, his fury radiating from him, causing the very air to ripple with the half-formed images of newly spawned Neverborn. **'You dare to defy the cycle of life and death itself ! Is there nothing you will not despoil with your sorcery ?!'**

'Remember, _Death Lord,'_ said Khayon, smiling despite the wrath of the Daemon Primarch and the incredible toll his exploit was taking on his body and mind. ' _What can be done, can be undone.'_

Mortarion screamed wordlessly, and turned wholly to face Khayon. Tattered wings rose from his back, tearing through his dirty cloak, propelling him toward his quarry. He raised his arms, and a stream of pure corrupting Warp energy burst forth from them, engulfing the Exalted Sorcerer. This was no mere psychic attack, for Mortarion had never possessed such ability beyond the unnatural senses of all Primarchs. This was the displeasure of Nurgle himself, made manifest through his champion. Khayon screamed, pain and defiance and laughter mixed in the sound as he gathered all of his remaining power to counter the assault. When the stream ended, he was still standing, his armor turned black from the attack, and Ahriman immediately knew that, until the end of his days, Khayon would always wear that armor. It had been merged with his flesh, and its surface could never be repainted. _Khayon the Black_ , the name surged into his mind, glimpsed through his Corvidae predictive abilities. _Necromancer of the Fifteenth Legion._

But that future would end soon if nothing was done, for Mortarion was marching toward Khayon, all thoughts of Ahriman and the Rubric gone before this affront to the God of Decay. The Exalted Sorcerer stood, defiant, between the Daemon Primarch and his resurrected brothers. Ahriman, his mind still united with the Rubric, saw his chance. Without preparations or planning, he struck at Mortarion's exposed back, using every scrap of power he could conjure. His subconscious mind shaped the psychic onslaught, using the knowledge he had gained from the Necroteuch to turn the raw power of the Empyrean into patterns of energy that were Mortarion's anathema. He heard his foe scream in pain as the blast hit him, but it wasn't enough yet. He needed more power to destroy the Death Lord's physical form, whose resilience had always been greatest among all Primarchs. He reached further and further, and sensed a familiar entity answer him, deep within the Rubric.

 _ **My son**_ , said that presence, and a flow of new strength was added to Ahriman's spell as the Crimson King reached through him to strike at his rival brother. And still, it wasn't enough. Magnus was far away, on Sortiarus, his power was spread throughout a hundred battlefields, and his link to the Rubric was lesser than that of any of his sons – he might be the source of the gene-seed that had carried within it the flesh-change, but he himself had never been afflicted by it.

Ahriman went even further, not hearing the incoherent screams of pain and rage coming out of his mouth, along with words of power not spoken aloud for millennia as he was the vessel for energies no mortal could ever to hope to wield unscathed. Nor did he realize that he was hovering a meter above the ground, arcs of saphire lightning coursing through his flesh and joining his Black Staff to reinforce the beam of blue light. He stormed through the palace of his mind, searching for anything he might use, anything that could grant him the edge he needed to save his Legion from Mortarion. Ancient, long-locked doors were thrown open, painful and shameful memories alike coming back to him as vividly as the day they had happened, but he ignored the pain in his soul they caused. He was Ahzek Ahriman, and he would _not_ fail his brothers.

Then, he found it. One door in his mental palace, one he did not remember ever creating. When he smashed it open, it did not reveal one more moment of his past he had chosen to consign to the archives of his memory. Instead, it opened on a seemingly limitless black void, with distant pinpoints of light. And it was then that he knew what each of these lights were, and despite the urgency and desperation of the situation, he nearly recoiled and closed the door again. For these lights were the fragments of his own mind, ripped apart from his conscious awareness when he had put much of himself into the Rubric. His mind had splintered, fragments scattered across the Warp but still bound to him by the one soul they shared. All of them had wandered through the Eye of Terror, and he knew then that it had been one of them that had whispered to Ignis the location of Ahriman's warband, using a daemon as its mouthpiece. He knew that it was another fragment of his own psyche that had driven him to the Rings in the first place, having learned of Kelbor-Hal's survival. And he knew, too, that there were others, spread outside the Eye of Terror, whispering their secrets into the minds of Imperial scholars, driving some to madness and others to illumination.

Horror nearly overwhelmed him as he realized what he had become – less than a man, and more of a power in himself, a shadow spread across the Warp. But the need his brothers had of him focused him, helped him surmount the shock, and he bent his will toward drawing the power of these fragments to him. It flowed through him, along with awareness of what they had done, and his mind reeled as he saw the horrors they had caused – worlds lost to daemonic incursions as wayward mages performed rituals they did not understand, civilizations slaughtered as champions guided by their whispers sought to reclaim ancient artefacts and lore.

He struck with it all, and Mortarion screamed, turning away from Khayon. His face was exposed now, a death's head of cadaveric flesh and white skin stretched tight upon the bone. His eyes were ghastly flames of green fire glowing within twin pits of abyssal black, and maggots burrowed under his face, bursting from the skin. There was a flicker, as if reality suddenly readjusted itself, and an antique rebreather appeared, cowering the lower half of his face and forcing fumes that would have liquefied a man's lungs into whatever passed for the Daemon Primarch's breathing system, the poison instead helping him hold onto his incarnation. His cloak was burning, his armor was falling apart, his wings broken and his very essence was being consumed by the opposing energies Ahriman was wielding thanks to the Necroteuch's forbidden knowledge of the first humans who had learned the truth of the Warp. Yet still, the Death Lord advanced.

' **You will die,'** he growled, his voice piercing the veil that cloaked Ahriman's awareness of his physical surroundings and burying itself into his brain like a dagger to the brain. **'Your petty conjurings will not save you** ** _or_** **your Legion. I. Will. Kill. You !'**

But Ahriman couldn't die. Whether he could not afford to, because he now understood just how important his continued existence was to the Rubric, or whether it was impossible for him to die precisely because of the Rubric's power, was irrelevant. More and more power coursed through him, and he sensed his flesh start to transform, leaving behind the material realm to fuse with the aetheric currents. A dark presence loomed over his Corvidae sense, blocking out his perception of the future, but he ignored it, and finally, with one last shout, it was done.

The flow of aetheric energy proved too much for Mortarion to endure, and with a scream of disbelieving fury, the Daemon Primarch's incarnate form dissolved, his immortal essence cast back into the Sea of Souls. How long the banishment would affect the Death Lord was impossible to guess. While defeated Neverborn were prevented from manifesting in the Materium for a thousand years, such rules did not apply within the Eye of Terror, and it was unlikely they applied at all to the likes of the Daemon Primarchs. But at the very least, the Death Lord had been chased from Sortiarus, his baleful aura removed from the system. With his perceptions stretching far beyond the confines of his physical form, Ahriman felt the shock and despair of the Plague Fleet, all sensing Mortarion's defeat. He felt Ignis capitalize upon the confusion, and heard the shouted orders of warband leaders to retreat, to abandon the battle and flee the system before the Cyclops rose from the Planet of the Sorcerers to destroy them all. The pull of his mind's fragments resumed, ripping his cosmic awareness apart. For a moment he tried to hold on to it, and managed it, but then he realized what that meant. He recognized the presence looming over his future, and knew that he was on the edge of fulfilling Lorgar's prophecy – and he turned back from it. His place was with his brothers. This fate, however mighty, was not for him. Not yet, and if he could help it, not ever.

'NO !' he shouted. 'I am Ahzek Ahriman !'

There was a moment of tension, his fate balancing between two equally likely possibilities. Then the surge of power faded, and his mortality reasserted itself. The ghostly, distant presence withdrew, but not before speaking words that echoed not only within Ahriman's own mind, but also across the bridge of the _Endurance_ , with enough strength to burst the skulls of dozens of brain-dead minions :

 _ **Soon, Ahzek. Soon …**_

And Ahriman needed no one to tell him that the voice, though distorted and lower, was his own. He came crashing down onto the _Endurance_ 's deck, unable to lift even a finger. He tried to move, to call upon his powers, but he was utterly spent. Something caught his arm and lifted him back up, and he saw that it was the Warsmith, calling out to the rest of the kill-team :

'We did what we came here for ! Now back to the gunship !'

Ahriman's recollection of what followed was hazy and fragmentary. He remembered leaving the bridge unhindered, the remaining Deathshroud members having vanished along with their Primarchs, bound to him by sorceries that went far beyond mere devotion. He remembered a few scenes of battle against panicked servants of the Plague God, the resurrected Thousand Sons wielding the same power they had before, as if their demise had had no impact whatsoever on their capabilities – though Khayon did not participate, nearly as exhausted as Ahriman was. Then they reached the _Shadow of Conspiracy_ , and everything went blissfully dark as he fell unconscious.

He woke up with the concerned face of Magnus above him. His armor had been removed, and he was lying on some hard surface. Turning his head, he recognized the towering book stacks surrounding him : he was within the Tower of the Cyclops, on Sortiarus.

'Father,' he managed to croak out, his throat painfully dry. 'The siege ?'

'We won,' replied the Crimson King, smiling in relief. 'Well done, my son.'

* * *

AN : and so it is done !

The Siege of Sortiarus arc is complete. Now, onto new and great things.

Tell me what you thought of this conclusion - I am especially curious about what you think of Khayon's resurrection of his fallen brothers. We will get a proper explanation of what he did in a later part, from his own POV, but it was important that this one was written from Ahriman's, for what I hope are obvious reasons.

At the very least, I know that writing this was fun. Also, if you have any ideas about what should happen next, don't hesitate to mention them. I have a couple of ideas, but I can always use more inspiration.

Zahariel out.


	24. One Last Blade

Victory felt hollow as Khayon looked upon the devastation that had been inflicted upon Sortiarus. Despite the ultimate triumph of the Fifteenth Legion, so much damage had been done to the Planet of the Sorcerers. Cities had been lost, to plague and wanton destruction. Entire allied warbands, who had willingly joined the cause of the Thousand Sons, had been slain by the Death Guard and their slaves. Millions had died, both in orbit and on the planet itself, not just soldiers but also the scholars who had been drawn to the Planet of the Sorcerers in pursuit of illumination. The dream that the Rubric had returned to the sons of Magnus had almost been lost again, this time forever.

At least he had been able to bring back the Thousand Sons who had fallen during the siege of Sortiarus. The balcony on which he stood was perched on the facade of a grand mausoleum, where the casualties of the war against the forces of the Plague God had been stored, awaiting formal burial. It was located in Sortiarus' greatest city, at the base of the Tower of the Cyclops, so that if it were to fall to the enemy, then the Legion would already be doomed anyway.

As soon as he had recovered from the exertions of facing Nurgle's wrath, expressed through Mortarion, Khayon had come here, to see if he could perform again the miracle he had created on the _Endurance_ 's bridge. And, it had turned out, he could. It had taken him the better part of a month, working slowly and carefully, but now all three hundred and sixty-nine of his brothers who had fallen during the siege were back into the world of the living. They were in various states of shock, most of them having been dead for weeks compared to the minutes of the first three he had resurrected, but the Pavoni adepts had been confident that they would quickly recover – once they had been done marvelling at what he had accomplished, of course.

Obviously, he hadn't been allowed near the bodies of his brothers immediately. First, a circle of the Legion's greatest Sorcerers had examined Ashur-Kai, Mekhari and Djedhor, searching their souls for any sign of corruption or infernal trickery. It was all too possible that Neverborn had deceived Khayon, making him believe he had brought his brothers back to life while in truth, he had only bound daemons into their corpses, pretending to be the defunct sons of Magnus. For nine days, the three resurrected had been subject to all manners of investigation, bearing them all with what could, in Ashur-Kai's case, only generously be called good grace. Ahriman had vouched that the resurrection was genuine, an use of the Rubric he had never even thought was possible, but even the First Captain's word was not enough to prevent independent verification.

Once it had been confirmed that Khayon had truly managed to restore his brothers to life, pulling their souls back into their repaired bodies, he had been nearly swarmed by those who sought to learn from him. All the time he had been working in the mausoleum, there had been at least a dozen of his brothers standing nearby, studying the arcane weaves he was using. Yet none so far had managed to emulate him, though they had filled several grimoires with their observations. Khayon hoped one of them would figure it out soon – even he himself wasn't quite sure how he did it, the spell being as much a matter of instinct as it was of applied knowledge of the Rubric. Ahriman had said that he himself would never be able to do it, his own unique position in the Rubric preventing it. But Khayon knew that, as long as he alone could bring dead Thousand Sons back, his Legion would never allow him anywhere near the battlefield. He was simply too valuable to risk.

There were limits to his resurrection, of course. The most obvious was that it was only possible on warriors of the Thousand Sons, who had the power of the Rubric coursing through their genetic code. Without it, the soul slipped too quickly into the Warp. Khayon suspected that, were he present at the moment of a Legionary's – or even any other ensouled being's – death, he could perform the spell as well, but without the power of the Rubric to support him, he would need to permanently expend part of his power to maintain the resurrection. It would truly be necromancy then, and he wondered if he would ever hate – or love – someone not of his Legion enough to do something like that to them. One moment of weakness, one mistake, and they would die again – but until then, they would be literally unable to die, his power binding their soul to their body no matter how injured. What would it be like, to live – no, to _exist –_ in such a way ? Part of him wanted to try it just to see what happened, but thankfully he still had enough morales left to stop him going down that path.

Another weakness was the need for there to be a physical body to return. Several of the corpses in the mausoleum had been too mangled for him to repair, and other dead Thousand Sons had perished in ways that did not leave any physical remnants behind. Yet Khayon could still feel their spirits trapped within the Rubric, prevented from dissolving into the Sea of Souls. He did not know what, if anything, these shades were experiencing – the resurrected Legionaries said they remembered nothing of their time on the other side of the veil. But he doubted it was pleasant. There were those, among the Apothecaries, who had cautiously raised the notion of cloning new bodies, based upon the dead warriors' genetic material – there were samples in the Legion's archives, taken to monitor the warriors' health. But not only did they lack the facilities for such a thing, cloning was still very poorly regarded among the Legions. It simply didn't work correctly with Legionaries, and never had, which was why the Emperor had been forced to abduct children to transform in the first place. Then, of course, there was the fact that Khayon wasn't even certain resurrection into a cloned body would work at all. For now, the souls of the hundred and eight sons of Magnus without bodies to return to would have to endure whatever fate was theirs in the fabric of the Rubric.

Khayon's armor was still black, despite extensive efforts from the Legion's serfs to repaint it. Paint seemed to be absorbed by it in the same manner a black hole absorbed light, and after wasting several liters of it without any difference he had told the servants to stop. They hadn't been able to remove the armor either – it was fused to his flesh now, his only remaining skin being that of his face. _Saern_ was lost too, its pieces abandoned on the _Endurance's_ bridge during the kill-team's retreat to their gunship. Khayon would have paid all of that a hundred times just for the return of one battle-brother to life – the hundreds he had brought back made it a ridiculously cheap bargain.

 _Too_ cheap, in fact, and therein lied the source of his unease. The universe craved balance in all things, and the Great Game of Chaos was no different. The Rubric had increased the power of the Fifteenth Legion drastically, and the answer had been Mortarion's attack. Now, with his discovery, it seemed as if the Thousand Sons would be beyond death as well, for he did not doubt that a method to circumvent the problem of the bodyless dead would be found in time. He had already had a taste of the Plague God's displeasure over this – but how would the other Dark Gods react ? Unlike Ahriman, Khayon wasn't blind to his Legion's binding to the God of Change. The First Captain's refusal to accept it was noble, even inspiring in its way, but it was still blindness all the same. The Fifteenth Legion's rise in power meant the increase of Tzeentch's power in the Warp, and the rest of the Pantheon would not take it lying down.

 _They will come,_ sent Gyre from her place at his side. _The other gods will send their own armies, weave their own plots to bring you and the One-Eyed King down. There will be war unending._

 _I know,_ he sent back, and for a moment his soul wavered, nearly overcome by doubt. But then his hands curled into fists, and he looked upon the city surrounding the mausoleum spreading before him. _And we will endure. We will grow – we will prospere. Through war, we shall be tested, the strength of our ideals proven beyond doubt. We will be what the Imperium only pretended to be – strong because we are right, not right because we are strong, because the truth we bear is the source of our power. We will realize our dream. We will build our own empire._

There was no response from the wolf, save from a faint sense of approval. He was not quite sure whether or not she understood his words. Perhaps she did and agreed, or perhaps she didn't care, as long as there were plenty of opportunities for her to feed. He forced his left fist to uncurl, and stroked her fur, feeling its softness through the ceramite gauntlet as if it were his own skin – another of Mortarion's unwilling "gifts".

'Brother,' called a voice from behind him.

He turned, and saw Ctesias standing in the archway leading back inside the now almost-empty mausoleum. The master daemonist was in his blue and bronze armor, covered in scraps of parchment inscribed with runes and warding sigils. His face was gaunt, cadaverous almost, but his eyes burned with the power and dark lore contained within his mind. Khayon considered himself a summoner of not inconsiderable skill – few Exalted Sorcerers would have been able to bind a creature such as the Dirus Ulixes – but even he was but a novice compared to Ctesias' mastery of that branch of the Art. He had heard word of the Terran's great deeds during the siege.

'Ctesias,' he replied, nodding is greeting. 'Are you here to try to pry my secrets out of my head too ?'

'Ha !' laughed the daemonist, his voice dry as the sands of Prospero. 'No, I have enough enemies in the Empyrean already without turning the entire court of the Plague God against me like you have. I have come here to bring you back. The leaders of the Legion are meeting at Ahriman's tower.'

'Not at the Primarch's ?' asked Khayon, his curiosity raised. Ctesias shook his head.

'Magnus is preparing to leave Sortiarus,' he explained. 'Ignis made a promise to Perturabo that the Crimson King would meet the Lord of Iron in person to discuss the terms of our alliance with the Fourth Legion. Our father doesn't need a ship to travel across the Eye of Terror – he will journey through the Great Ocean, and arrive onto Medrengard alone. He has left orders for us to prepare in his absence – Sortiarus must be rebuilt, the Dark Mechanicum forces you brought integrated into our armies, and a myriad other things need to be taken care of. It seems Magnus expect us to go to war as soon as he returns, and he wants us to be ready for it.'

'And why am I considered a leader of the Legion all of a sudden ? No, don't answer that,' sighed Khayon. 'Either it's because I was with Ahriman when we searched for reinforcements or because I brought our brothers back from the dead. I shouldn't be surprised, I guess.'

'No you shouldn't,' agreed Ctesias. 'The name of Khayon the Black is already spreading across our mortal allies and servants, brother. They almost worship you, you know. The most pious among their number have named you a saint of Tzeentch, granted the ability to return the dead to life.'

 _That_ made Khayon's skin crawl. He did not need worship – blind faith was the anathema of true illumination. But the worst part was, so long as no one else learned how to perform the spell of resurrection, Khayon wouldn't be certain they weren't right to do so. Who could say where the instinct guiding him when he wove his brothers' souls back into their bodies came from, after all ?

The two Exalted Sorcerers and the wolf left the mausoleum, born away on a disc of living flesh controlled by Ctesias. They flew over the city surrounding the Tower of the Cyclops, which, despite the Primarch's imminent departure, still loomed over everything as a constant reminder of the one who ruled this world and all upon it. The war had never reached this part of Sortiarus, but there were still signs of the devastation visible : entire districts turned into hospitals, convoys departing from the city's gates toward the other outposts, and an imposing network of defences at odds with the city's erstwhile scholarly dedication.

In the early days, just after the Burning of Prospero and the desperate transfert of the survivors to Sortiarus, Ahriman had raised his tower far from the still-abandoned ruins of Tizca and the Tower of the Cyclops. He had sought secrecy, in order to perform the experiments that had helped him refine the Rubric. Now, however, his Silver Tower had been moved closer to the Thousand Sons' capital, though still not within its walls. After half an hour of flying at speeds that would have thrown a mortal off the disc and plummeting to his death below, they landed upon a balcony that sprouted into existence as they approached, and entered the tower, Ctesias leading the way.

The lords of the Legion gathered in a circular hall, around a crystal table through which images of the system could be seen, changing according to the will of the observer. Ahriman, Sanakht, Amon and Ignis were there, as was Akhor'menet, the Exalted Sorcerer who had helped create the Ascended of Al'Kyreh. Khayon had seen a few of them since his return – they were hideous, no questioning that, but their soulfires burned bright, and their minds seemed untouched by the madness that was all too frequent among mutants. The lord of Al'Kyreh was bare-headed, his bald head tattooed with strange patterns in blue ink. His eyes glowed with the power of his soulfire, and a khopesh hang from his belt, its power field inactive.

Kyodomor Forrix of the Iron Warriors was also present, clad in the colors of the Fourth Legion, his helmet hiding his face but doing nothing to prevent Khayon from recognizing his aura. He also had his weapons with him, not that they would do him much good here.

 _Why is the son of Perturabo here ?_ Khayon sent to Ahriman, not offended but genuinely curious.

 _He represents the Iron Warriors' presence in the system,_ replied the Arch-Sorcerer, _and will help us with our task_. _With our father about to go and meet the Lord of Iron, we must be careful not to offend our allies._

Khayon wondered if Ahriman had also considered the other side of that coin – if the discussion between Magnus and Perturabo went poorly and the Fourth and Fifteenth Legions ended up being at war, it would be easy to deny the Iron Warriors one of their finest Warsmiths. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell just how deep Ahriman's cunning and honor respectively went.

'We are all here,' said Ahriman out loud as Khayon and Ctesias took their position around the table. 'Let us begin. Our Primarch will soon depart Sortiarus and go to Medrengard. We cannot tell how long he will be absent, and he has tasked us with the defense of his domain and preparations for a future conflict. The first part of fulfilling these orders will be to secure Sortiarus from the invaders that were left behind when the Plague Fleet departed the system.'

Not for the first time, Khayon wondered at the continued use of the word "system" by the Legion after their exile into the Eye of Terror. In spacecraft, the term designed the region of space where the gravitic influence of a star created a distorsion in the Warp, forcing ships to only transition in and out of the Warp past the Mandeville point – the invisible sphere surrounding the source of the gravitic distorsion – or risk catastrophe. But in the Eye of Terror, ships didn't enter or leave the Warp at all, and stars were not present in every location that was called a system. The Rings of Artek-Ker were one such instance, and Sortiarus' nine suns were all smaller than the planet they orbited. Yet the name remained, its use turned to describe a location in the Warp where the storms were kept relatively at bay. Was it merely the human mind's ability to adapt to anything at work, or its tendency to blindly cling onto any vestige of familiarity in an incredibly hostlie environment ?

The image on the crystal table turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand when it changed, responding to Ahriman's command. It showed a succession of burning cities, spread across Sortiarus' surface. What could be glimpsed of their architecture beneath the sorcerous fire spoke not of the Thousand Sons' elegant spires, but of blocky, half-collapsed buildings and burrows.

'The plague cities of the invaders are being destroyed as we speak,' he explained. 'Without Mortarion's guiding hand, the forces of the Plague God on the planet are leaderless, and the world itself is turning against them. Our brothers leading the purge have reported little Astartes resistance – and of those, none bore the emblem of the Fourteenth Legion. It seems the Death Lord's banishment took his sons with him, back to the Plague Planet. The Legionaries that remain to lead the servants of Nurgle are all from other Legions, pledged to the God of Life and Death. With the destruction of their strongholds, most of them are scattering and going to ground. It will be the work of years to purge them completely, without the Primarch's omniscience to direct our efforts.'

'Some of them will try to escape the planet,' mused Amon. 'There are many places on Sortiarus that don't solely exist on this world, and they could attempt to capture one of our ships.'

'We will increase security in the spaceports,' replied Ahriman. 'My main concern is this warrior.'

The display changed again, this time showing the image of an armor-clad Space Marine. The nature of the image – parts of it being sharp and others being less clear, told that this wasn't the result of a sorcerous scrying, but a memory being projected – and the absence of total clarity suggested that the memory did not come from a Space Marine with perfect recollection. The nature of the warrior explained well why the mortal from whose mind Ahriman had pulled the image had been unable to get a clear memory. The Astartes' armor was bloated and rotting, and two leathery wings of black bone and spotted skin spread from his back. The upper half of his head was that of a standard Mark III helmet, but the lower half was a gaping jaw opening into pure, absolute blackness guarded by a row of yellow teeth. A single eye painted upon the remaining shoulder guard was all that marked the warrior's former allegiance.

'This is Garthak,' said Ahriman, and there was a hint of sadness in his voice. 'Once called the Last Blade, Chieftain of the Death Sight cohort of the Sons of Horus. I knew him once – I fought alongside him on Marnicia. How he has fallen, since then.'

Ahriman took a deep breath, and continued :

'Garthak has, as you can see, embraced the path of the Plague God, and was drawn to Sortiarus alongside his warband by Mortarion's call. Unlike the others trapped on the surface, however, he hasn't gone into hiding but is actively gathering as many of the remaining forces to him as he can.'

'Then let's crush him,' said Ignis. 'You know where he is, yes ? All we have to do is bring a few Silver Towers and destroy his army. He is only making things easier for us by drawing this vermin out of the shadows. If he wasn't a slave of the Plague God, I would think he was trying to get on our good side by sacrificing other members of the army in the hope we would let him go in exchange.'

'That would be the optimal solution,' agreed Ahriman, 'if it wasn't for the place Garthak has chosen to gather his forces. Bombardment is out of the question, as are most of our more destructive weapons. There are also many other limitations and difficulties with the location.'

'No fortification can hope to stand against us,' replied the Master of Ruin, sounding almost boastful. 'Just show it to me, and I shall find a way to crack it open – especially with Forrix's assistance !'

'This is no fortification,' explained Ahriman. The image in the crystal table changed again, and the gathered Thousand Sons gasped in shock as a ruined city was revealed. It was bitterly familiar to all of them, and even Forrix grunted in recognition. 'Garthak has gone to the ruins of Tizca.'


	25. Unwelcome Revelation

The rage of the Thousand Sons, Forrix mused, was an unnerving thing to behold.

He knew of Tizca, of course. The City of Light, capital of Prospero, a place of wonders and knowledge like no other in the galaxy – save perhaps for the Imperial Palace itself. He had seen pictures of it, and marvelled at its architectural perfection. It wasn't a city made for war by any means, and his military instincts had screamed at him about how to make it more defendable – but it had been beautiful. And he knew, too, of Tizca's destruction at the hands of the Sixth Legion. The story had spread across the Nine Legions during the rebellion, especially once the Thousand Sons had finally joined with Horus on the final push to Terra. Vengeance against the Wolves, and the one who had ordered their execution, had been the driving force behind their joining the Warmaster – as good a reason as any of the other Legions, including his own, if Forrix was honest.

Since the Warsmith's alliance with Ignis, Forrix had learned more about the Burning of Prospero and how the Thousand Sons had survived the unleashed _Vlka Fenryka_ , unlike all the previous preys of the Rout. Magnus, after fighting against Russ, had managed to teleport all of his surviving sons on the Planet of the Sorcerers, along with the ruins of Tizca and those humans who had survived that long. He supposed he could understand why the Thousand Sons would not have rebuilt the city – he himself wouldn't return to Olympia unless the Lord of Iron himself commanded it. But still, the reaction of the gathered sons of Magnus when Ahriman told them of their enemy's choice of location took him by surprise. They radiated bloodthirst that wouldn't have shocked him coming from a World Eater. Even Ignis, who was supposed to be calm and collected at all times, was twitching, his right fist closing and opening repeatedly.

Greatest of all was Khayon's fury. The air around the black-armored sorcerer was writhing with daemons, minute spirits of anger manifesting and being consumed back into the furnace of his wrath. At his side, his wolf familiar – strange, to see a son of Magnus have a Fenrisian beast as a companion – growled, picking up on its master's anger.

'What does this fool hope to accomplish ?' seethed the Necromancer. 'He must know his desecration will bring the full wrath of the Fifteenth Legion upon him. Every son of Magnus on the planet will rally to purge his plague-ridden scum from the ruins.'

'He might be attempting to gain reinforcements,' said Amon, the old Legionary the only one besides Ahriman and Forrix himself not burning with anger. 'The ruins are filled with dark memories, and despite the rituals we already performed there, the ghostly echoes of the Wolves remain. His Sorcerers might be trying to summon them once more and unleash them upon Sortiarus entire.'

'What if he is just trying to escape ?' suggested Forrix. Seeing the gaze of all Exalted Sorcerers turn toward him, he continued : 'The ruins of Tizca are where Magnus brought you here from Prospero, right ? I am no sorcerer, but wouldn't something like that leave a mark in the Warp, something that could be used to facilitate another massive teleport ? Perhaps Garthak is simply seeking a way off-world, and is gathering as many forces with him as he can to save them while he is at it.'

'That would make sense,' said Akhor'menet, rubbing his chin. 'The echo of our Primarch's great spell lingers still in the ruins that were brought with us, a scar in the Warp that could be re-opened. His Sorcerers would need to work on changing the destination, of course, otherwise they would end up trapped on Prospero, a dead world in the middle of Imperial territory with no mean of escape.'

'No,' Ahriman declared suddenly, and Forrix could hear in the Arch-Sorcerer's voice that he had just experienced an unwelcome revelation. 'That's not what he intends. You are right, Forrix, Garthak wants to use the unique aetheric conditions in Tizca – but not to simply escape. If that were the case, he would already be gone. I think … I think he is trying to open a Warp Gate, a true and permanent portal from Sortiarus to another location.'

'But to where ?' asked Ignis. 'Where could he possibly … The Plague Planet. Every Death Guard in the system vanished when Mortarion was defeated. If they were all dragged back to the Fourteenth's homeworld, and this bastard opens a gateway to there ...'

'During the siege,' continued Ahriman grimly, 'one of our main advantages was that the Death Guard wasn't able to deploy its forces onto the surface efficiently thanks to the nine suns' gravitic field. A Warp Gate would eliminate this advantage – worst, it could even allow Mortarion to return immediately, without the need to wait for his banishment to end.'

'We must warn the Crimson King,' said Khayon, but the words had barely left his mouth that every Thousand Son present winced. Forrix felt it too, though to a lesser degree : it was as if an observer he had only been subconsciously aware of was suddenly gone.

'Magnus has gone to Medrengard,' groaned Ignis. 'If your theory is correct, Ahriman, then Garthak will begin his ritual immediately. We don't have time for a prepared assault – if the gate opens on the Plague Planet, Sortiarus is all but certain to fall. You might have been able to defeat Mortarion once, but let's not bet our lives on the possibility that you can repeat this feat.'

'You are right,' nodded Ahriman, before raising his staff, and sending his thoughts across all of Sortiarus, to any who could hear : _Brothers ! We are under attack once more. The ruins of Tizca, the monument of our past suffering, is threatened by the slaves of the Plague God. They plan to defile them with a foul ritual, cowardly begun in our Primarch's absence. Should they succeed, all that we have achieved may be undone. Come, brothers ! Come to Tizca, and fight once more !_

The air around the group shimmered, and when reality reasserted itself Forrix found that they now stood on a hill overlooking the spreading ruins of the City of Light. Shapes moved in the rubble, taking up defensive positions, while deep within, near the ruins of a grand pyramid, arcs of Warp energy darted in the air. There were thousands of figures in the city, though few of them appeared to be wearing power armor. The auspex within Forrix's helmet helpfully chimed in, informing him of its estimation of the forces arrayed against them : approximately ten thousand mortals, and about a hundred Astartes, most of them wearing Sons of Horus colors.

'Khayon,' commanded Ahriman, 'open a conduit for your brothers aboard the _Tlaloc._ We can't afford to wait for reinforcements – we are going in now, and holding nothing back. Forrix, I know our Legions' alliance is still not official, but will you grant us your help in this battle ?'

'The deal Ignis made with the Lord of Iron was clear,' grunted Forrix, raising his weapons. 'We were supposed to help you free Sortiarus from the forces of the Plague God. It looks to me like the job isn't quite done yet. Of course I will fight with you – I am as doomed as you are otherwise.'

Behind the rest of the group, the black-clad Legionary ripped a hole in the fabric of space with his bare hands, and more Thousand Sons poured through it, marching toward the ruins of the City of Light at speed. Like a spear in the hands of a god, more than one hundred Space Marines began their charge toward what remained of the Pyramid of Photep, where the ritual was taking place. Gunfire rose from the ruins as the defenders noticed them, and Forrix bellowed his Legion's war-cry as small-caliber rounds smashed harmlessly against his Terminator war-plate :

'Iron within ! Iron without !'


	26. The Bound Angel

Once again, war had come to Tizca.

This was the third time Ahriman fought in the City of Light. The first had been when the Wolves had descended upon it, sent by the Emperor, manipulated by Horus and pushed by their self-righteous and ignorant beliefs. The second had been when Amon had drawn the sons of Magnus here and summoned the ghosts of the first battle in a grand ritual to locate the shards of their broken Primarch. Both these battles had shaped the fate of the Thousand Sons in some way – this one would only do so if they failed to prevent Garthak's ritual. If a Warp gate was opened between Sortiarus and the Plague Planet while Magnus wasn't here to contain Nurgle's influence, the world would be lost, even if the Thousand Sons managed to kill every invader that passed through it.

Of course, there was the possibility that their interpretation was wrong. But even if the Sorcerers of Nurgle chanting at the foot of the ruined Pyramid of Photep did not intend on opening a Warp Portal to the Plague Planet, or to any other staging ground of the God of Decay's servants, there was no way the completion of their work would be beneficial to Sortiarus. They had to be stopped, and if Ahriman had to raze the ruins of Tizca entirely to do so, he would do it without hesitation. It would break his heart, but better to sacrifice the last remnants of the past than jeopardize the future.

With Khayon's Company supporting them, the lords of the Legion tore through Garthak's forces. As Ahriman had commanded, none of them were holding anything back, and they left a trail of broken bodies and shattered minds behind them. Despite his Terminator war-plate, Forrix was keeping up with the advance; in fact, he was in the lead, ripping enemies to shred with his combi-bolter and lightning claw. Only the Arch-Sorcerer himself didn't take part in the battle with his psychic powers, instead monitoring the progress of the ritual and gathering his strength in case the worst came to pass and someone needed to make a desperate attempt to close a portal. He still had the brainpower left to shoot at the enemy with his plasma pistol, though.

The army gathered by the Son of Horus warlord was a mix of many warbands and abandoned minions, but they still displayed impressive tactics. Squads were scattered into defensible position, laying fire on the advancing Thousand Sons, forcing the attackers to use sorcery or close-quarters to dispatch each group lest they expose their back to them and wasting time in the process. Clearly Garthak's descent into slavery to the Plague God had not diminished his military skills, nor had their desperate situation impacted the morale of the invaders – none of them were trying to escape. It was difficult for Ahriman to read the thoughts of those touched by Nurgle, but not impossible, and all he sensed from them was an impression of resignation, and bitter satisfaction in the knowledge that their sacrifice would help bring doom upon their killers and enemies of their god.

Reinforcements were coming in from all across the planet. Sorcerers of the Fifteenth Legion were teleporting around the ruined city, taking advantage of Sortiarus' unique nature and bringing whatever forces were near along with them. Dark Mechanicum troops, Thrall Wizards, mutants and Spire Guard veterans, all were brought together to help fight the enemy that threatened them all. There was no grand plan, no actual strategy – every group simply fought the enemy in front of them, taking some pressure off for Ahriman's main strike toward the city's heart. Messy in the extreme, yes, but there was simply no time for anything else. Ahriman could feel the energies gathering at the pyramid's foot, his head echoing with the screams of the disturbed dead. His grip on the Black Staff tightened – there would be retribution for such a desecration of the tomb-city.

 _Ahriman,_ called a voice, different from the wordless wailings of Tizca's restless ghosts.

The Arch-Sorcerer turned in the sending's direction, and his blood ran cold. There, in the distance, atop one of the hills of ash and dust surrounding Tizca's ruins, stood a golden figure clad in grey power armor inscribed with thousands of words. Even from afar, he recognized that figure, but it was impossible that he be there, looking like this.

 _Lord Lorgar ?_ Ahriman sent back, his mind reeling. _Is that really you ?_

He could not believe that was the case. For one thing, the projection – for it clearly wasn't the Daemon Primarch of the Word Bearers in the Warp-infused flesh, else everyone on the battlefield would have sensed it and reacted, either by falling to their knees or running away – was all wrong. It showed Lorgar as he had been centuries ago, before his ascension to daemonhood, before he had renounced his misguided faith in the Emperor. And yet, his eyes burned with the same infernal fire Ahriman had seen when he had faced the Seventeenth Primarch on Sicarus.

 _It is I, Ahriman. This appearance in which you see me is due to the means I am using to reach you. An echo of the only time I walked this world in the flesh, brought back from the planet's memory._

 _What do you want, Lord ?_ asked Ahriman, deciding to accept that explanation – for now.

 _Three of the Dark Gods want you dead, nephew. They have sent one of my sons to kill you. He walks the Sea of Souls, drawn to your power like a shark smelling blood in the water._

 _I thought the Word Bearers would not involve themselves,_ Ahriman replied. _That you could only act when the Four were in accord._ He didn't want to _think_ the next question, but he had to : _Has the Changer of Ways abandoned the Fifteenth, that this is no longer the case ?_

 _The Legion isn't involved, or I wouldn't be able to warn you. Only one of my sons is, and the Gods involved did not ask permission. He belongs to them now more than he ever belonged to me, and can no more oppose their will than I can – even less, in fact. He is coming for you, Ahriman, and his power is great, reinforced by many rewards he has earned in their service. Thread carefully._

 _I thank you for your warning, Lord._

 _Ahriman …_ The mental voice sounded hesitant, something wholly unnatural coming from a Primarch. It made Ahriman cautious. _There is more. I have a favor to ask of you._

 _I am in your debt for the gift of the Necroteuch and this warning, Lord. Ask what you will._

 _Thank you,_ and there was genuine gratitude in the sending, another thing unnatural coming from a Daemon Primarch of Chaos Undivided, like an echo of the man Lorgar had once been. _I cannot say it to you, but when you see my son, you will know what it is I want you to do. Good luck, Ahriman._

Then the voice went silent, the golden figure vanished from view, and Ahriman was dragged back into the battle for Tizca. A squad of tainted Imperial troopers was opening fire on the column, using missile launchers at near point-blank range. Even power armor couldn't stop projectiles designed to kill tanks, but fortunately, the Thousand Sons' did not need to.

' **OUT OF MY WAY !'** roared Khayon, before turning the missiles mid-air and sending them back at the troopers with a simple gesture of his hand. The soldiers died in the explosion, their bodies vaporised by the intense heat, the diseases infecting them sterilized most thoroughly.

' **FORWARD !'** shouted the Exalted Sorcerer, still leading from the front, his wolf at his side, his pistol in one hand and lightning cradling in the other. He hadn't had time to get a proper new weapon to replace the ax Mortarion had broken, and had declined the offer of several of his warriors to lend him their own in favor of using exclusively sorcery. The jaws of his familiar were dripping with blood, and her fur was coated in gore. **'DEATH TO THE ENEMIES OF THE LEGION !'**

Khayon hadn't slowed down. His rage was like a beacon in Ahriman's eyes, pulsating from him in the rhythm of the Necromancer's hate. He wasn't the only one – Ahriman could feel other sons of Magnus in the city, radiating their fury at the desecration of Tizca's ruins. But despite his outburst, Khayon's rage was cold, not hot like that of a Berzerker. It did not take away from his concentration – it sharpened it to a razor-edge, while his emotions increased his raw strength. Ahriman knew that his own feelings were much lesser than those of his brothers. He attributed this to the fact that he had not been born on Prospero, but on distant Terra, long before they had found the Primarch. He had lost friends and brothers when the Wolves had come, and the place he had called his home – but that and a _homeworld_ were different things. Or perhaps he was deceiving himself, burying his grief under his duty to his Legion, and the need to save them from the threats that continued to rise one after the other. Certainly he too had felt uneasy when he had learned where Garthak had gone.

He _was_ getting slightly worried about Khayon's mental state, though. The Necromancer had lost both his mortal parents in the Burning of Prospero, and Ahriman knew his brother's dreams were haunted by the events of that terrible day – during their wandering in the Eye, the corridors of the _Tlaloc_ had often resounded with the echoes of howls whenever its master retreated to his quarters. Khayon had not taken part in the battle at the Pyramid of Photep – at the time, he had been searching for his family in the civilian districts the Space Wolves had bombarded from orbit. Nor had he been present at the second battle, having been involved with the World Eaters at the time. But he was certainly making up for it now, even though his warriors were doing their best to protect him, all too aware of the immense value their Captain had for the Legion as the Necromancer.

In the end, it took twenty minutes for the war party to burn its way to the ruins of the Pyramid of Photep, every member of the group made quicker by sorcery. Because of their haste, they were forced to leave seventeen warriors behind, thirteen of them dead and four too wounded to continue. Even if they could be brought back, Ahriman winced at such losses. Given the opposition they faced and the resources at their disposal, such a casualty ratio was simply _unnacceptable._ But again, they did not have any choice. How he loathed being put into such a position.

Seven Sorcerers of Nurgle stood in the circle at the foot of the pyramid, surrounded by the thoughest warriors under Garthak's command. More than thirty Legionaries in sullied Sons of Horus colors held defensive positions, stone blocks having been displaced from the ruins to form makeshift barricades. Garthak himself stood in the back, just before the ritual circle, both hands around the pommel of a daemonic sword that he was holding blade down, the sand turning black where the possessed metal touched it. The Plague Lord was utterly immobile, like a grotesque perversion of an antique statue of a knight keeping watch over the tomb of his lord.

'We are running out of time !' Ahriman shouted over the vox. 'The ritual is reaching its end !'

Khayon laughed darkly as he charged, his pistol holstered, both hands dancing in the air before him like some demented conductor. The defenses were blown apart, blocks of masonry thrown in the air like children's toys, crushing the warriors taking cover behind them. The Sons of Horus focused their fire on the Exalted Sorcerer, but all of their attempts were turned aside by the combined kinetic shield woven around the Necromancer by his battle-brothers. Bolt shells and infernal volleys slaughtered the rest of the defenders, until Khayon stood face-to-face with Garthak himself. The Plague Lord lifted his sword free of the ground, and charged Khayon back.

 _Take down the Sorcerers,_ pulsed Khayon. _This one is mine._

The duel – if it could be called that – was short. As the rest of the warband slew each of the seven Sorcerers, Khayon ripped off Garthak's limbs one by one, until the Plague Lord was nothing but a head and a torso wriggling on the ground, even his wings torn off. Then, as the final Sorcerer died and the power of the ritual collapsed, Khayon lifted Garthak into the air, looked him in the eyes, and silently threw him into the colliding energies at the center of the ritual circle, where he vanished in a flash of bright light and eldritch shadows, leaving only a whirlpool of Warp energy.

For several seconds, Ahriman stared at the aborted portal, ready to unleash his powers if it looked like it might go out of control. It seemed as if, without the Sorcerers to maintain it, it would collapse on itself and vanish entirely – but then a clawed hand the size of a Space Marine's torso emerged from the rift, soon followed by another. Each seized a side of the hole in reality and _pulled_ them apart, and the hands' owner stepped through, surrounded by a cloud of red smoke.

It was tall, more than six meters in height, with a pair of leathery black wings that made a mockery of Garthak's own. The sand hissed where its cloved feet touched the ground, revealing legs that were jointed backward, extending from a torso of black muscles and crimson skin, only partly covered by cracked armor of the same colors. Only a single shoulder paldron remained, displaying a screaming daemon skull, but it was the creature's head that drew the eyes of all present. Crowned by a pair of horns that looked sharp enough to pierce through ceramite, it was a hideous amalgamation of human, Astartes war-gear, and canine. Its mouth was filled with fangs the size of Ahriman's hand, and its two eyes burned from within the ossified remnants of a Mark II helmet. Acidic drool dripped from its maw, creating shards of black glass where they hit the sand. Around it, the air of Sortiarus rippled, the red smoke showing faces screaming silently before fading away.

Looking at the creature with his sixth sense, Ahriman saw its essence, the soul of a mortal twinned with the inexhaustible fires of Chaos. Combined with the remnants of armor, this confirmed what Ahriman thought. This was more than a creature of the Warp, spawned by the Gods' endlessly shattering and reassembling cosmic consciousness. This was a Daemon Prince, a warrior whose deeds had earned him the reward of dark apotheosis. Yet he sensed no pride in the creature's burning mind, no sense of glorification into his power. All he could sense was regret and pain, terrible pain that tore into the Daemon Prince's very soul. He knew then that, whoever the warrior had been in his mortal life, the existence he now led was not one he had sought, but one that had been forced upon him by the cruel Powers that he had served. That was strange – he had not believed it possible for someone to become a Daemon Prince without being willing to do so. Only a tremendous effort of will could prevent the body from degenerating into a Chaos Spawn during the final stage of the metamorphosis – any lingering doubt must be quashed, or the chosen was doomed.

Regardless, there was no doubt as to his purpose, nor his identity. This was the son Lorgar's projection had warned him about. Ahriman stepped forward, gesturing for his brothers to stand back. There was a chance – a _small_ chance, but chance nonetheless – that he was wrong, and that this could be ended without further conflict. Lorgar's words about a favor lingered in his mind.

'I am Ahzek Ahriman,' he called out, facing the killer that three quarters of the Pantheon had sent after him, 'First Captain of the Thousand Sons. Who are you, to dare thread Sortiarus' ground ?'

The Daemon Prince took a deep breath, the sound of the air being drawn into his lungs like the shrieks of flayed innocents, and spoke, his voice reminding Ahriman of collapsing cities :

' **I am Argel Tal, the Crimson Lord, the Bound Angel, champion and slave of the Primordial Truth. Once, the master of the first and** ** _true_** **Gal Vorbak. Once, a commander of the Seventeenth Legion. Once, a son of Lorgar. Once, a child of Colchis. Now … your death.'**

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AN : AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA ! Did any of you see _that_ coming ?

Seriously though, you will have an explanation in the next update. Alternatively, you can check the Roboutian Heresy - Night Lords for my theory about Argel Tal, which will give you some clues.


	27. The Truth of Immortality

AN : I dedicate this part to the novel _The Carrion Throne_ , by Chris Wraight. Not because it is good, though it is. Not because it shows us the true face of Terra in the 41st Millenium from perspectives we have never seen before, though it certainly does that. No, it is because, as the heat increases and mosquitoes try to breach my defenses to feast on my blood, I have once again been reminded of just how useful the Black Library hardbacks are in crushing insects. Seriously, I don't consider any of my Black Library books "broken in" until I have used them to kill at least one blood-drinker. Death to the flying vampires ! All hail the true power of Mankind : heavy, big-ass books !

And now, unto the story. Enjoy !

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Khayon had heard of Argel Tal. There were few in the Nine Legions who had not – the lord of the first Gal Vorbak, these warriors who had plunged into the Eye of Terror at their Primarch's orders to learn the truth of the universe and returned changed beyond imagining. In his time among the World Eaters, he had learned more : specifically, that Argel Tal had been friend with the Eighth Captain Kharn, and that he had been killed by Erebus, leading to a confrontation between the Betrayer and the First Apostle that the latter had only survived by cowardly fleeing through sorcery. Lheorvine had never failed to laugh whenever he told that story, though there had been a dark undertone to it.

And now he was here, a legend of the rebellion, come to kill Ahriman. Looking at him, Khayon had to admit that, even if the Bound Angel was alone and the Thousand Sons were many, he wasn't quite sure the Daemon Prince couldn't do it. Argel Tal was less powerful than Mortarion, that wasn't in doubt, but there was _something_ about him that screamed "Danger" in the Necromancer's mind. It took him a moment to realize what it was, and a shiver ran down his spine when he did.

Argel Tal's appearance had caused Gyre to vanish. His familiar, who had not hesitated in attacking the Death Lord, was cowering in his shadow, his bond to her transmitting nothing more than animal terror. _Nothing_ he had ever encountered had caused such a reaction in her. For the first time, it struck him that attacking the ruins without a proper weapon might have been a mistake.

'Chapter Master,' said Ahriman calmly, as if the two of them were facing each other in a strategium rather than on the battlefield, and the Daemon Prince had just introduced himself rather than threaten to end the Arch-Sorcerer's life. 'I see that the reports of your death were exaggerated.'

' **No, they were not,'** replied Argel Tal, and while it was difficult to interpret the tone of his infernal voice, Khayon was almost sure that the Daemon Prince was as relaxed as Ahriman sounded. ' **When Erebus' blade ended my life, I thought I knew what awaited me : torment, eternal and unceasing. But I underestimated the cruelty of the gods. Erebus did not realize that, as his athame pierced my flesh and banished the daemon that had been sharing it, he was indeed doing the Gods' will – but not in the manner he thought. With Raum gone from my soul, the Gods had a new opportunity to torment and use me.'**

' **They did not burn my soul in their infernal pits,'** continued the Daemon Prince, **'nor did they give it to one of their servants to toy with for the rest of time. No, they granted me the reward they had told Lorgar would be given to all of Mankind. They made me immortal, a perfect union of the soul and the power of the Warp. That is what they do to their most useful tools – make them impossible to break so that they can play with them for all eternity. Sometimes, sorcerer, I wonder if all of this -'** he gestured around and upward, as if to englobe all of the Eye of Terror - **'is just a testing ground, an arena in which the Gods forge their champions before taking them away to join their Great Game. As a mortal, I had a choice, even if it was only between death and damnation. Now … I am nothing but a pawn in their plays.'**

'Your brothers in the Seventeenth would see this as the ultimate honor,' Ahriman pointed out. 'They would consider you blessed above all others, to be granted such power.'

' **They are fools,'** growled the Crimson Lord. **'Blinded by the light of power, they do not see the burning flame it hides. Their minds have been altered, twisted by the lies of Erebus and Kor Phaeron and false promises of glory. They obey the Gods not because it is the only way for Mankind to survive, but out of fanaticism and lust for power. They are no longer my brothers – in truth, they are no longer brothers to one another, each of them driven by his own ambition. The Gods took a price from every Legion who joined them, Ahriman. The Word Bearers paid theirs with brotherhood and sanity. Yours … Well. You already know.'**

'Yes,' agreed Ahriman ruefully, 'I know. Tell me, Bound Angel : why haven't I heard of your ascension before ? Even now, I can sense your power. Why does the Warp not sing of it ?'

The Daemon Prince's laughter was akin to the wailing of nations mourning the death of armies.

' **I am a weapon, sorcerer,'** he explained once his mirthless laughter had ceased. **'A tool of the Gods, sent where and when they desire, denied even the illusion of freedom that other princelings are granted. I fought on Terra, and my brothers did not recognize me even as I battled the Angel and was banished by his blade, falling under the shadow of his wings as had been prophesied to me so long ago. Since then, the Gods have kept me locked in the tides of the Empyrean, forced to watch the outside world but unable to affect it. I think they intend to keep me as a secret weapon, one to wield only against their greatest foes. Once I have killed you, I will slay all of the others present here, and the secret of my continued, accursed existence shall be preserved – a twisted reflection of the silver knights of the False Emperor.'**

'You are wrong,' declared Ahriman, and the Crimson Lord cocked his head in curiosity. 'There is one who knows of your fate. Lorgar, your father. He told me you were coming to kill me.'

For the first time, Argel Tal seemed unsure, his aura flickering with surprise amidst the pain and madness. Behind Khayon, the rest of the Thousand Sons were spreading, forming a half-circle around the Daemon Prince and their First Captain, ready to fire the moment things turned ugly.

'He asked me for my aid,' continued the Arch-Sorcerer, 'and said I would know what to do when I looked upon you. Now I see what he meant, and what he hoped I could accomplish. Tell me, before you try to kill me : why do you obey the Gods, after what they did to you ?'

' **Did you not listen ?'** groaned the Daemon Prince, and there was so much pain in his words that Khayon winced in sympathy, despite the creature's professed intent of killing him along with Ahriman. **'I am a slave ! I feel their chains, tight around what remains of my soul. I can no more disobey their commands than my Primarch can leave his sanctuary and take the Legion's command from these _worms_ Erebus and Kor Phaeron ! We are bound, he and I, slaves to the will of cruel and thirsty gods … and we will be, forever. Likely, the only reason Lorgar knows of my fate is so that he too can suffer in that knowledge. Such are the Gods.'**

'And what if,' asked Ahriman, 'it needn't be that way ? What if I could free you of these chains ?'

The Daemon Prince froze at Ahriman's words, even his wings ceasing their slow, rythmic beat. For a moment, Khayon dared to believe that Ahriman would achieve yet another seemingly impossible feat, and convince an ascended son of Lorgar to turn against the gods who had so cruelly treated him. But he could see the chains the Powers had placed upon their pawn, and though only three-quarters of them were taught at the moment, it was still more than enough. He watched as they burned into the transformed soul of the Bound Angel, twisting his thoughts against his will. The light Ahriman's words had caused to appear vanished, replaced by a blaze of rage.

' **No !'** howled Argel Tal. **'I have been betrayed by hope too many times. No more !'**

With lightning speed, the Crimson Lord's right claw descended upon Ahriman, talons poised to pierce through his chestplate and tear into his hearts. The Arch-Sorcerer barely managed to dodge the blow, nearly knocked off his feet by the impact on the ground. Then, before the Thousand Sons could open fire on the Daemon Prince, Argel Tal screamed, and reality was torn asunder.

The unnatural sound burned into the minds of the Legionaries, even the non-psychic Forrix reeling. Dozens of rents appeared in the air, showing naught but absolute black, and Neverborn poured through them. No two of the creatures were alike, and none of them bore the traits typical to any of the Gods' choirs. As he fought to reclaim control of his body, Khayon realized that this infernal army was composed of unaligned daemons, born of emotions and deeds not falling under the purview of any one of the Powers. Only the weakest of spirits belonged to that category, the dregs of the Sea of Souls – but there were hundreds of them. A part of Khayon marvelled at the power of the Crimson Lord, and he couldn't help the twinge of greed within his soul. What would he be able to accomplish, should he be able to bind the Daemon Prince into his service ?

Of course, first he had to survive the next few seconds. Though he had been able to recover somewhat, most of the warband were still incapacitated, the host of daemons converging on them. The Crimson Lord hadn't stopped screaming, and was moving toward Ahriman, who was standing his ground, his Black Staff held up high, radiating power. He would have to trust that the Arch-Sorcerer knew what he was doing – his own priority laid in protecting his brothers.

 _Ctesias_ , he sent to the older daemonist, _I think it is time to fight fire with fire._

 _You are right,_ came the reply, along with a bitter, dry mental laugh. _But Ahriman won't be able to hold against this creature for long. He will need our help soon enough, especially if he spoke the truth when he made that insane offer – and somehow, I am convinced he was._

 _So am I,_ admitted Khayon. _He is still such an idealist, but that's why we follow him, isn't it ?_

The whole exchange had happened at the speed of thought, and the daemons had only advanced half a meter. Before they could go any further, the Necromancer drew a card from his tarot deck and threw it in their path, before casting his mind on the familiar patterns of control. Next to him, he sensed Ctesias begin to speak the true names of Neverborn – a slower summoning method compared to Khayon's deck of cards, but one that granted him far greater control over the daemons he summoned. Khayon's method did not require him to learn the daemon's true name, only to pact it into his service after forcing it to submit to his will, one way or another. But then again, he had never claimed to be as good a daemonist as Ctesias, who had almost single-handedly founded the discipline in the Rubric's aftermath. For now, he could only hope his skills would be enough for the task at hand. He banished all other concerns, and focused exclusively on his summoned daemon.

Unlike when he had faced Mortarion, Khayon hadn't had time to plan for this encounter, to carefully go over his bound daemons and select the one most suited to the task. He had trusted his instincts, letting them guide his hand as he reached toward his deck. The moment his fingers had closed on the card, he had recognized the Neverborn bound to it – not actually imprisoned within the parchment, of course, but linked to it from within the Empyrean, unable to manifest but through its power – and a smile appeared on his lips. Yes, this would do – this would do nicely.

In many ways, the daemon was linked to the Dirus Ulixes, the daemon Mortarion had defeated and that Khayon had yet to take the time to summon and bind again. The Khornate daemon had been created by the destruction of a city through treachery, and had manipulated events on Old Earth to lead to the creation of a nation that had avenged this massacre by conquering the descendants of the butchers without mercy. Yet that nation had also brought progress, _order_ with its domination. Clans and city-states that had warred for centuries had been united under a single rule of law, and while not all had been equal under it, it had still been better than the lawlessness that had preceded it. The nation had had principles, and been ruled over by a council rather than a single tyrant. The ideals of dedication, of service to the state, had held powerfully, despite a few … incidents, where cruel and evil lords had risen to position of power and caused great harm before being removed.

Then a lord rose, a conqueror of great power and skill. He had brought great gains to the nation, and was beloved by its people and the soldiers he had led into battle alike. The council – the Senate – that ruled the nation elevated him, granting him great powers, but his ambition was ever greater. One by one, his rivals fell, until he stood above all others, his domination unchallenged. Fearful that he would break the ancient law of the nation and name himself king, the Senators plotted against the conquering lord. And as the Ides of March, a time the conqueror had been warned to beware, drew near, their plot took final and terrible form. The conquering lord went into the Senate to meet the lawmakers and discuss the future of the nation – and then, they drew daggers, and attacked him.

Centuries later, legend would attribute last words to the betrayed lord, though whether those were truly his or not was long lost in the mists of History. These words were spoken as the lord saw that, among his betrayers, stood one he had taken into his own family, as his adoptive son, now holding a knife running with his father's blood. Upon witnessing this treachery, so the stories would say, the conquering lord stopped resisting his attackers, and bled to his death upon the Senate's floor, his last words echoing into eternity, sealing the doom of those who had slain him :

" _You too, my son ?"_

The betrayers' hope to quench the lord's ambition was for naught, however, for his two heirs, one of his blood and one his most loyal servant, driven to fury by their master's murder, hunted them down, slaying them all before turning upon one another. The blood heir emerged triumphant, and crowned himself master of the nation, an emperor in all but name. Gone now were the days of divided power and politics – now was the time of absolute domination and the reign of self-proclaimed living gods. In time, the nation became an empire, and it would perform the exact same terrible deeds that had brought it into being in the first place. All who opposed it would fall, in time, until at last its reach went too far, and it collapsed under its own weight, drowned in its own decadence, as is the way of all empires in the fullness of time. Many would be the empire's legacies, in the Materium as well as in the Immaterium. Yet the betrayal of the Ides of March, when the Senators brought violence to a place of law, echoed particularly violently in the Sea of Souls.

This most singular treachery had consequences that spread across centuries and across nearly the entire world. Cities had fallen, bloodlines had been wiped out, and the fate of nations had been forever altered. All of this had coalesced around the core of power created by the first betrayal, the first dagger to pierce to flesh of the conquering lord. A daemon of Tzeentch, the God of Change, who had always been and always would be, was born from it all, raising to awareness amidst the cries of the people mourning the loss of their great leader. Born of betrayal and cloaked in upheaval, the creature was powerful and subtle, capable of twisting the fates of mortal with but the slightest touch. Wherever it walked, treachery and mayhem followed, destiny reforged into something that was always more violent, more brutal and cruel – more fit to the appetites of the Dark Gods.

Such was the origin of the daemon Khayon had summoned. It had come after him in the rebellion's aftermath, when the Nine Legions had been fleeing from the Imperium's retribution. Khayon had fought it in the _Tlaloc_ 's darkholds, escaping its tricks and seeing through its deceptions until he had confronted it, far too close to the Anamnesis' chamber for his peace of mind, and bound it into service. It was tall, more than three meters, and clad in a white robe, just like the betrayers who had created it. Sixty hands emerged from the vestment's folds at the end of long, spindly arms, one for each hand that had held a dagger on that fateful day, each still holding the weapon that had spilled the warlord's blood. Its face was obscured by its hood, but glimpses of patrician features could be seen – each different from the last, but all contorted in terror and agony. It called itself the Liberatore Perpetuo, the Eternal Liberator, and it laughed as it emerged onto Sortiarus' ground.

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AN : for those of you who are interested, the last words of Caius Julius Caesar weren't actually "you too, my son ?". That was an invention of Shakespeare.

There are two different historical accounts of what Caesar's last words actually were. Both agree that they were spoken right as the murder attempt began. One says that the last words were : "Why, this is violence" (something unthinkable in the Roman Senate), or "Casca, you bastard, what are you doing ?" (Casca being the first Senator to attack him). You have to admit, Shakespeare's version do have a more ... dramatic turn than either of those.

Next up, the actual battle between Ahriman and Argel Tal. Don't forget to review !


	28. The Chains of the Gods

The malevolent, insane cackling of the Liberatore Perpetuo drowned out the sound of Argel Tal's scream, and the Warp-holes closed, cutting the last Neverborn passing through them in twain. Next to it, Ctesias was summoning his own host of daemons, an army of blood-red fiends wielding swords of black metal whose leader the old daemonist knew the name of. In a surreal scene, they flowed around the taller form of the Tzeentchian daemon rather than try to cut it apart. Had daemons been creatures bound by even the most tenuous logic, they would have turned against the Thousand Sons – for their creator god had been one of the three who had dispatched Argel Tal to slay Ahriman. But such was the self-destructive nature of Chaos. This was why the order of the Materium had to be imposed over the randomness of the Empyrean – on their own, the Dark Gods could accomplish _nothing_. Their malevolent appetite for destruction would stand in the way of any true achievement. Ahriman truly believed this – the path of the Sorcerer was the manifestation of this belief, bending the tides of the Sea of Souls to the will of a mortal mind.

The two infernal forces clashed, the Liberatore striking with its daggers while the Bloodletters carved the unaligned Neverborn to shreds with sword and talons. The arms of the Tzeentchian daemon bent in impossible ways, seeming to possess far more articulations than the human arms in homage of which they had been created. With the Bound Angel's scream ended, the rest of the Legionaries recovered, and a deluge of sorcerous fire fell upon the hundreds of mewling creatures remaining. It would not take long before Argel Tal's host was annihilated, its numerical advantage whittled away by the superiority of the daemons the Thousand Sons had called upon.

But that delay might all too easily be enough for the champion of Chaos Undivided to fulfill his gods-given task, as Ahriman was painfully aware. Argel Tal was powerful, far more than the Daemon Prince of Nurgle that the Arch-Sorcerer had dispatched on Elliathorel, what seemed like a lifetime ago. His power was lesser than that of Mortarion, but unlike when he had faced the Death Lord, Ahriman had had no time to prepare, and the knowledge of the Necroteuch contained no clue as to how to defeat such a creature. The pages of Lorgar's gift contained great knowledge of the four Dark Gods, and the respective strengths and weaknesses of their champions – but precious little on what they could achieve when working together, so rare an occurrence that was.

Argel Tal struck once more with his claws, and Ahriman deflected the blow, raising a shield of telekine energy around him. The attack bounced off the defense, but he still winced inside his helm as he felt the corrosive Warp energy of the Bound Angel burn at his psyche, even from such a glancing contact. There was so much _pain_ inside the corrupted soul of the fallen Word Bearer that it took Ahriman all of his concentration to avoid faltering. A lesser adept would have been consumed entirely, or at the very least been incapacitated, reduced to a screaming ball of agony.

'But _I_ am Ahzek Ahriman,' he growled, willing himself to ignore the pain. He continued, his voice gaining in strength with every word until he was shouting his defiance to the face of the Daemon Prince : 'First Captain of the Thousand Sons, Master of the Corvidae, and Lord of the Rubric !'

Gathering all of his might, Ahriman struck back at the towering form of Argel Tal, unleashing a stream of sorcerous fire and lightning. The son of Lorgar staggered backward under the strength of the blow, which Ahriman followed up with a second, and a third, until Argel Tal was reeling, forced to take a knee, claws reaching up to a shattered breast-plate that revealed scorched daemonic flesh. This was nowhere near enough to banish him, of course – already the damage was healing, infernal vitality erasing all traces of the terrible wound Ahriman had inflicted. As the Thousand Son advanced on his weakened foe, Argel Tal rose his head, his blazing eyes seeming to penetrate right through Ahriman's soul, and he spoke in a voice filled with pain and, even worse, _resignation_ :

' **Do not resist your death, Sorcerer. You know what fate awaits you if you live enough. Look at me. Is this the future you desire for yourself ? I can see your power, growing within you with each breath you take, spreading further and further across your flesh and soul. When the last of your mortality is burned away, you will be like me : another pawn in the Great Game. The only difference is that you will be enslaved to a single Dark God, rather than all of them.'**

Ahriman didn't waste more time speaking to the Daemon Prince. Like Khayon, he had seen the strings of the Dark Gods tighten around Argel Tal's soul, and knew that the fallen Word Bearer was beyond the reach of mere words. Instead, he charged, rising his Black Staff two-handed above his head like a spear. The weapon glowed with all the power the Arch-Sorcerer could muster, and before Argel Tal had time to react, Ahriman flew in the air and rammed it into his exposed chest, past the cracked armor and deep into the entrails of the accursed Legionary. Argel Tal screamed, feeling true physical pain for what was possibly the first time since his death on Nuceria.

Before the Daemon Prince could react in any other way, Ahriman channelled all of his will and mind through the Black Staff, and plunged his awareness deep within the amalgam of raw Chaos and tormented soul-stuff that made up Argel Tal's essence. No longer observing it from the outside with his sixth sense, Ahriman was _inside_ the Daemon Prince's gods-touched soul now. He could see far more than before – and, more to the point, he could _act_ upon what he saw. Time slowed down, the battle raging in the world of flesh seeming to pause entirely as Ahriman's universe was reduced to what his mind could perceive, everything being processed at the speed of thought.

 _ **You deserve to die,**_ boomed the voice of Argel Tal, coming from all directions at once. **_Surely you see this. The Rubric splintered your mind, Ahzek. How many worlds have burned, how many will burn, how many are burning at this very moment, because a fragment of your psyche whispered into the ears of a sensitive soul and set them off the path of damnation ? By your mere existence, you bring suffering and death to billions. And there is only one way for it to end : you. Must. Die._**

Again, Ahriman ignored the voice, and focused on the chorus of whispers and cries that it almost completely drowned. The son of Magnus went deep into the Daemon Prince's mind, diving through lakes of hatred and plains filled with the memories of fallen brothers, and there, he found …

 _Cyrene._

The name echoed within Argel Tal's tormented soul, over and over, filled with grief and sorrow. This was the core of his agony, the crystallization of the Crimson Lord's every regret. And as he looked upon it, Ahriman finally understood just how the Dark Gods had been able to transform Argel Tal in the first place : he truly believed that he deserved this fate. Without the need for any manipulation by his masters, the Bound Angel was convinced that his suffering was _just_ punishment for his many, many crimes. He might not have enjoyed what he had done during his mortal life, his conscience might have haunted him during every waking moment, but he had still committed uncountable atrocities. Worlds had burned at his hand during the Great Crusade, civilizations had been brought to extinction – but these were the lesser of his self-perceived sins. It was what he had done in service to Chaos that truly weighed on his soul, the things he had believed were necessary to prevent the doom of Mankind but had still known were inherently _wrong_.

And Argel Tal's greatest regret was bound within that name, _Cyrene_. Ahriman couldn't make up the details, but he could see the broad strokes of what had happened : a face, blinded by the light of retribution brought upon the Seventeenth for crimes it did not know were crimes at all; an oath of safekeeping, broken by blades and guns wielded by golden figures; a pact made with a hated brother to break the laws of life and death; the vow, broken again, as a leviathan of steel plunged to its death through the skies of a world dying at the hands of two Legions. This was how the Dark Gods had woven Argel Tal's fate, cruelly manipulating his sense of honor and his conscience so that he would willingly offer himself to them, knowing he could never atone for his sins and failures.

The Daemon Prince reacted to Ahriman's discovery with a violence unlike anything he had shown before, abandoning the calm, resigned façade he had projected thus far. A storm of fury battered at Ahriman's mental defenses, sending cracks running along the fortress of his mind, but he held on, and reached toward that knot of guilt and self-loathing. Every inch of metaphysical progress toward it was agonizing, as Argel Tal defended it with all the considerable power he could muster, but finally, the mental grip of the Arch-Sorcerer tightened around the concept of the name.

 _ **No !**_ Argel Tal roared, and there was such despair in his voice that Ahriman nearly turned back, abandoning his plan at the last moment. _**Don't touch it ! Don't you dare !**_

 _I told your Primarch I would help you,_ Ahriman sent instead. _And I keep my promises._

With a mighty psychic effort, Ahriman ripped the knot of sorcerous entanglements that made the core of Argel Tal's bindings to the Dark Gods out of the Daemon Prince. His awareness violently returned to the outside world, and he found himself hovering in the air, at the foot of the Pyramid of Photep, eye-to-eye with the kneeling figure of Argel Tal, and holding in his left hand a _thing_ of pure, absolute blackness. Tendrils of lightning and smoke poured from it, connecting it to the gaping hole in Argel Tal's chest, and it pulsed with the rhythm of the Daemon Prince's infernal hearts – it was still connected to him, even now that it had been pulled out.

 _Khayon ! Ctesias !_ Ahriman's mind shouted desperately. _Now !_

Together, the two daemonists focused their aetheric selves onto what Ahriman had pulled out of Argel Tal. Among the entire Fifteenth Legion, none matched these two's mastery of the nature of the Neverborn – Ctesias had all but founded the discipline, while Khayon had experience with a considerably wide array of daemons thanks to his collection. As Argel Tal rose to his feet, eyes blazing with infernal hatred, they delved into the weave of Warp energies, unknotting that which the Dark Gods themselves had woven. Exhausted, it was all Ahriman could do to hold on to the object, kept floating in the air by the raw power unfurling around him, even as the Daemon Prince raised his claws, ready to end him. Then, just as Argel Tal was about to fulfill his task, it was done.

In the end, it was Ctesias who dealt the final blow, cutting a final thread of aetheric matter with all the precision of a surgeon. The thread snapped, and in a catastrophic chain reaction, the entire divine binding collapsed in on itself. The blackness vanished, replaced by a pure, intense light, that forced all those present to avert their gaze. Only Ahriman and Argel Tal were able to look upon what had manifested instead where Ahriman's falling hand had been raised.

With the chains of the Dark Gods removed from Argel Tal's soul, the memory of "Cyrene" was cleared. A silhouette of pure light, human and feminine in shape, hovered in the air, looking down at the Daemon Prince with what could only be called benevolence on its abstract face. It reached down with a spectral hand, laying it upon Argel Tal's brow like a priestess blessing a holy warrior, and for a moment there was the most incongruous expression of _peace_ upon the face of the Daemon Prince. Then the shape dissipated in a shower of luminous motes, and a deep silence fell upon the battlefield, broken only by the distant sounds of the battle being waged across the ruins of Tizca by the Fifteenth Legion against the remnants of Garthak's army. Ahriman fell to the ground in a heap, breathless, exhausted like he had rarely been before. Slowly, he looked up, and saw Argel Tal, standing now, regarding him with an undecipherable expression on his warped face.

' **She lives,'** he said at last. **'I feel it now, cousin. Somehow, somewhere, she lives still !'**

* * *

AN : and it is done ! The battle is ended, the last poisoned blade of the Plague God on Sortiarus dispatched, and as for the executioner of the Gods ... well, you will see the consequences of this part soon enough. That is all for now - remember to tell me what you thought of this, and what you hope for this story in the future !

Zahariel out.


	29. Two Shrouded Souls

AN : mostly talking in this part. The next one will focus on Magnus - I look forward to writing something from a Daemon Primarch's POV.

* * *

There was a distinct sense of surrealism to the scene. Mere seconds ago, the Thousand Sons had been battling for their lives against an agent of the Dark Gods themselves, sent to slay the architect of the Rubric and cast the Fifteenth Legion down from its current ascendancy. Now, the architect and the agent were conversing peacefully, while the other Sorcerers watched from the sidelines, surprised, shocked, curious and wary in equal measure. Ahriman had silently bid his brothers to let him talk with the Bound Angel alone, but several squads of psychic Legionaries were still watching the exchange unfold, hands clutching bolters and muscles tense, ready to aim and fire at a moment's notice should the erstwhile violence resume. Ctesias had dismissed the Bloodletters, while the Liberatore Perpetuo wandered amidst the ruins, pickling at the corpses of dead Sons of Horus and giggling to itself. Khayon was among those who did not bother to hide their caution : he was staring at Ahriman and Argel Tal, ready to set his summoned Neverborn upon the Daemon Prince. Argel Tal must be aware of this, of course, but he didn't seem bothered by it, though whether that was because he had nothing to fear from the Tzeentchian daemon or because he had no intent of doing anything that would give the Necromancer cause to unleash it was unknown to Ahriman.

' **I can sense it now,'** said the Daemon Prince. **'Her soul isn't in the Warp, Ahriman. Cyrene is alive, somewhere. I do not know how she could have survived the destruction of the** ** _Fidelitas Lex …_** **But she lives. However she did it, wherever she might be now … That is enough.'**

'It is … rare,' Ahriman noted, 'for one of us to be attached to a mortal. Especially since she wasn't part of your mortal family, from what I gleaned in your memories. Who was she ?'

' **She was a daughter of Monarchia, one of the cities the Ultramarines destroyed at the command of the False Emperor to humiliate the Seventeenth. That fire blinded her, and we took her with us as we departed that world, where the sons of Guilliman had left ruins where once a magnificent world stood. She accompanied us on the Pilgrimage, and though she never saw the true horror of what we found there, she listened, and learned the secrets of Lorgar's Word, first among all the billions of humans who would follow into her footsteps.'**

Argel Tal looked at the horizon, seeing something that was only visible in his mind's eyes.

' **She was our conscience,'** he explained. **'Our confessor. We told her everything, me and the rest of my Chapter, and Legionaries from the rest of the Seventeenth too. The secrets we told her in the half-century leading to the rebellion would have earned us destruction at the Wolves' hand a hundred times and more, but she always retained her humanity. To the Legion, she was a living icon, a symbol of our past. To me … she was a friend, and someone I failed to protect. She was an anchor to humanity even as everything else slipped away in the preparations and the betrayals. I thought that as long as I could keep** ** _one_** **oath unbroken amidst all the others, I would still be able to live with what I had to do … And yet, in the end she died while I was fighting on Isstvan V. I hunted and slew her killers, but what did vengeance mean when I could not keep my word to protect her in the first place ?'**

'You brought her back, though,' said Ahriman. Argel Tal laughed bitterly at that :

' **Erebus did, as part of his pathetic attempt to manipulate the fates, not realizing that he was nothing but a pawn himself. He called upon the denizens of the Warp that had devoured her soul, and bid them to return the scraps they had consumed before putting those back together. Then he called upon the Gods, asking that they recreate her flesh and restore her to life. And then, I thought her lost when the Ultramarines ambushed us on Nuceria, during the Shadow Crusade. They destroyed the** ** _Fidelitas Lex_** **, aboard which she had gone back for the final stages of the extermination campain we waged on Agron's homeworld. I died mere hours after watching my Legion's flagship burn through the atmosphere before crashing into the planet, convinced that she had died along with it.'**

'And the Powers wove your chains from that mistaken belief, even as they reforged your soul into one of their own creations,' completed Ahriman. 'But the Warp contains the reflection of all things, both false and true. And so, when the chains were forged, even the Powers couldn't help but hide the truth within them – Lady Cyrene's reflection in the Sea of Souls, her every deed and belief.'

' **Yes … But do not think for a moment that you and your brothers completely overturned the Gods' design. Even if you broke the chains that compelled me to do their bidding, I am still a creature of the Warp, a soul twisted and reforged in infernal fires, infused with the very essence of Chaos. Not even you can break such chains completely – you have only loosened them, for a time. My memories of humanity have been reinforced, but that will pass in time, and the hungers of the Neverborn will hold me in their grasp where forced loyalty does not.'**

Despite all that he had seen and done, Ahriman couldn't help but mentally shiver at the prospect. Even when Argel Tal had tried to kill him, there had been a certain detachement to his actions, a _control_ that most Neverborn lacked. The idea of such power as the Bound Angel possessed being infeoded to nothing but the inhuman appetites that all daemons shared was … disquieting, to say the least. Unlike the other Astartes who had been elevated by their patron god in return for their service, Argel Tal wouldn't be compelled to further a specific god's agenda, nor would he be forced to constantly perform great and terrible deeds to keep his master's favor.

 _This might be why the Powers so rarely combine their efforts when creating Daemon Princes,_ Ahriman thought. _Because they cannot be controlled as easily. Just what have we done here ?_

Argel Tal wasn't aware of Ahriman's concerns, and resumed talking :

' **Everything I said before is still true, Sorcerer. I will not try to kill you, for you have given me a greater gift than you can imagine, but your doom still awaits you. You may have loosened my chains with the help of your brothers, but the God of Change will never let you break your own. And the ghosts of all those who die because of your fragments' whispers are still hunting for you across time and space, ready to push you further down the path to damnation. Is your life truly worth those of the billions who suffer because of your mere existence ?'**

'… If that is the price by which my brothers are preserved, and the dream of the Legion kept alive, then it is a burden I will bear. The fulfillment of the Legion's hopes will vindicate all the suffering that might have been necessary to reach it. Unless you know of a way for the Rubric to endure even with me dead ? I understand now that I am its keystone, the nexus of the entire spell.'

'… **No, I do not. Another son of Magnus could assume your place in the Rubric, should they learn all of its secrets, but even then this warrior would only inherit your doom. The tapestry of your Legion's fate might have been woven anew when you cast the Rubric, Ahriman, but it is still powerful, and holds you all in its grip. The boon you claimed from the heavens came at a price – and not one that you can entirely make others pay for you. You have brought considerable changes to the Great Game of Chaos, and the Gods** ** _will_** **react to it. This …'**

He gestured to the duo's surroundings before continuing :

'… **is not the end, but the beginning. Other armies will come, driven to destroy you. Other killers will be sent after you, and other plots will be woven to bring about your undoing. The champions of Chaos are stirring, the voice of their patron god booming in their souls, compelling them in ways even more irresistible as the ones that were used upon me. Even the Dark God that favors you and your brothers is one you will need to be cautious of, lest his own schemes destroy you. My father already told you as much, but you** ** _must_** **know this : only in fulfilling your destiny and abandoning your mortality can you truly hope to protect your Legion against what is to come. You are already half-way to immortality, whether you recognize it or not, but only a true immortal can accomplish ambitions such as yours.'**

There was a moment of silence, as Daemon Prince and Arch-Sorcerer contemplated the choices and paths that had led them here, standing in the ruins of a destroyed utopia. Then, Ahriman asked :

'For the first time since you died, you are free of the Gods' leash. What will you do now ?'

' **I do not know. If Cyrene lives, then it is better I do not search for her, much as I wish to see her again. Once I was merely the host of a creature kin to those who tormented her spirit when she was dead, but now I am become one of these creatures myself. Any reunion would be … unnecessary painful for us both. I will have to contend myself in the knowledge that she lives, somewhere the Dark Gods cannot reach for one reason or another. Finding her would only bring their influence to her, and we both know** ** _that_** **only brings suffering, in the end.'**

'Erebus is on Sicarius,' Ahriman pointed out, 'holding the reins of the Word Bearers alongside Kor Phaeron, while Lorgar is kept within the _Templum Inficio_ , bound by the will of the Powers, a prisoner in all but name. Without his hand to restrain them, the Dark Council plays its games with your Legion, heedless of the lives lost as a result. The Seventeenth could definitely benefit from your return there – you were Lorgar's favorite son once, and might be so once again.'

' **There is an undeniable … appeal to that idea,'** admitted Argel Tal, flexing his claws as if in anticipation of bloodshed. **'Though Erebus was nothing but the Gods' puppet, I cannot pretend I don't want to rend him apart for his betrayal and manipulations. As for Kor Phaeron … I dislike the old serpent, though he never did anything to** ** _me_** **personally – he was always scared and jealous of those possessing** ** _true_** **power, rather than the hold on others' minds he claims as the self-proclaimed Master of Faith. Yes, perhaps I will go to Sicarius. I wonder how my brothers would react to my …** ** _unexpected_** **return. It would be interesting, at least.'**

'I can get you transport there,' offered Ahriman. 'Now that your bindings have been loosened, I doubt the Powers will assist you in walking through the Warp to get there yourself, especially with the mystical protections surrounding the planet. We have some Word Bearers vessels among our allies – Lorgar kept his Legion's hierarchy uninvolved, but individual leaders still came to join us. I am sure many of them would agree to bring you to Sicarius – Erebus has made a _lot_ of enemies.'

' **That was always his greatest failing. Even those who admire and follow him secretely despise him, and seek to remove and replace him. Among all the Word Bearers and their mortal slaves, there are** ** _none_** **who are truly loyal to him out of genuine devotion, rather than greed, ambition, or fear. Even Kor Phaeron, for all his rancid corruption, has faithful servants. Mad, wretched servants whose soul is utterly tainted by his evil, but faithful nonetheless.'**

'So, you will go then ?' asked the Arch-Sorcerer. Though he did not think Argel Tal would be able to take control of the Seventeenth, let alone ally it to the Thousand Sons, but there was a simple joy in the thought of Erebus and Kor Phaeron being taken down a peg or twelve.

' **Yes,'** said Argel Tal at last. **'I will go to my brothers, and see Sicarius with my own eyes rather than hear the echoes of its prayers in the Warp. It is time for my long exile to come to an end.'**


	30. Where Gods Walk

The Tower of the Cyclops trembled, and the heavens above Sortiarus flashed with crimson light, as Magnus the Red departed the Planet of the Sorcerers. The Crimson King had focused nearly all of his attention on the spell that would bring him to his destination, and stepped through the rent in reality still unaware of the war that would soon rage on his homeworld – for even ascended daemons can be deceived, and Magnus had long since proven that, for all his vaunted wisdom, he wasn't omniscent. Besides, Garthak had been cautious, waiting until the presence of Magnus had vanished before giving his Sorcerers the signal to begin their ritual. And so, ignorant of the battle to come, Magnus departed Sortiarus, and stepped into the eternally shifting tides of the Great Ocean.

The Daemon Primarch's power caused the aetheric currents to part before him, sending ripples that were felt by psykers all across the Eye of Terror and beyond. On the daemon world of Gorienkhas, shamans sung of a fiery eye blazing through the sky, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. On the hive-world of Ashterios, a preacher in the underhive went mad, tearing his own eyes out of their sockets and roaming the streets, shouting about the one-eyed god and the renewal and damnation that came along with him. For nine days and nights, he screamed his insanity through the underhive, no one daring to come close to him, until he finally collapsed, his dead body dissolving into a black liquid that vanished into the cracks of the underhive, contaminating the water supply and causing a spike in mutation rates that would ultimately result in the entire district being purged by fire.

For the Crimson King, walking between worlds like this was easy – too easy, in fact. During the time of the Heresy, he had used this ability too much, in order to see how Horus' rebellion was progressing. He had watched the entire galaxy, pondering his options and wondering what to do – not realizing that in doing so, he was only fragmenting his essence further, until he had been on the brink of complete dissolution. Only the efforts and sacrifices of his sons, led by Ahriman, had allowed him to be restored, and he hadn't used this ability since – he had joined with Horus' attack on Terra with a fleet, and remained on Sortiarus since the rebels' defeat at the Palace. He could have taken a ship to Medrengard, of course, but such a method was far slower than the one he was using now. As long as he was careful and focused, he would not break apart again.

Space and distance, already loose concepts within the Eye of Terror, meant nothing at all once one entered the deeper realms of the Empyrean. Instead, Magnus moved from idea to idea, concept to concept, until he could find the one corresponding to the Iron Warriors' homeworld. Great leviathans, born of the thoughts and emotions of long-dead species, roamed around him, and a host of lesser Neverborn followed him, riding on his coattails. Mindless figments of the God of Change, they were drawn to the power of the Crimson King. He would need to deal with them before reaching Medrengard – Perturabo wouldn't look kindly on him bringing an army along.

 _I won't repeat the mistake I made when trying to warn my father of Horus' treachery,_ thought Magnus, bitterly reminiscing of how he had been deceived by Tzeentch into destroying the wards surrounding the Emperor's Webway Project, ruining His vision and opening a new front in the war. The other Traitor Legions thought that the Thousand Sons hadn't joined the rebellion until its final stage – save for a few Companies who had reacted to Prospero's destruction with vengeful rage – but few of the realized that it was only because of Magnus' unwilling strike that the Emperor had been unable to personally intervene in the war, forced as He was to remain on Terra.

Magnus' physical body had dissolved into the aether, transforming the Primarch into a pure consciousness. All of his ascended brothers were able of such a feat, though most remained attached to their physical forms, even after the alterations the Powers had wrought upon them. Just like the daemons in whose image they had been remade, their incarnate bodies were but projections of their spiritual selves, avatars of the eternal spirits they had become into the mortal world. Here, in the Empyrean, Magnus was far more powerful than when he was incarnate – and also almost completely unable to affect the Materium. Such was the condundrum of the Powers themselves, except that, thankfully, they could not manifest at all, save for through insignificant fragments of their greater selves – that which the sentient races of the galaxy called daemons.

When Medrengard appeared in Magnus' perception, it was as a nexus of ethereal threads, fear, hatred and bitterness bound together by a force that burned like a cold star, surrounded by darkness.

 _Perturabo,_ Magnus understood. _How you have changed since I last saw you, brother._

 _Magnus,_ came the reply, the thoughts of the Lord of Iron holding a faint surprise. _You came, after all. I wasn't sure Ignis would keep his word, or that you would survive Mortarion's attack._

 _He did, and we did. I have come to talk with you, as was agreed. Let us meet in person rather than speak like this, shall we ? I will come to your fortress, and we will discuss our alliance._

There was no more reply from Perturabo, and Magnus slid out of the Empyrean and back into the half-reality of the Eye of Terror. Even here, in this place where the tides of reality and unreality were mixed, a Daemon Primarch could not simply manifest into being through sheer force of will. If Magnus had simply been trying to project an image of himself on Medrengard, that would have been possible, but he wanted to speak with his brother in person, as per the agreement Ignis had made. And that meant that he would need to resort to other, less elegant methods.

Outside of the Iron Warriors' fortresses and hive-sized industry centers, in the wastelands of Medrengard, many tribes of mutants somehow managed to survive on the inhospitable land. Often captured and used as slaves and bolter fodder, they fed off the scraps of the Fourth Legion's warriors and what little life existed on the daemon world. They ate venomous plants growing under the light of the black sun, and small, wretched animals that were as much Neverborn as they were flesh and blood. Compared to the Iron Warriors' thralls, these wretches were little more than vermin – but they were still ensouled beings, and their divergence from the human genetic template meant that many among them were born with a sensitivity to the Warp – though few ever reached adulthood on a world haunted by daemons and the dreams of Perturabo's tormented psyche.

As Magnus' spirit reached Medrengard, one such feral psyker began to feel a pounding headache, that quickly transformed into agony greater than anything the wretch had ever experienced. Around him, the rest of his tribe started to flee, knowing all too well what a witch's screams heralded – but they weren't fast enough. With one last, desperate scream as he finally realized what was happening to him, the witch detonated, and the wave of psychic energy that burst from where his body had stood caught all fifty-seven members of his tribe. None of them had any time to scream as their bodies dissolved, the matter composing them being drawn to the center of the blast, melting and reshaping itself. Their souls did not fare any better, instantly consumed in the blaze of a Daemon Primarch's power, their mental shrieks of despair going unheard.

Magnus the Red shook himself free of the few Neverborn which had managed to follow him into reality, obliterating their incarnate forms with a side thought. Manifesting this way outside the Eye of Terror would have required a considerably greater vessel to sacrifice, but all that was needed here was a small gateway through which he could enter. For all the madness and horror that lurked in the Eye, it also had its benefits – for those with enough power, at least. The weak would find only misery in this realm, and only by proving themselves worthy could they hope to escape their fate.

In the distance, the Fortress of Hate dominated the horizon, a mountain raised by the will of a demigod. Without hurrying, Magnus began to walk toward his brother's lair, knowing that it would take him several days to reach it. Each of his steps sent cracks running across the dry, sterile earth. He had to contain his psychic power – letting his mind roam freely would bring the changing nature of Sortiarus here, and Perturabo wouldn't appreciate that, which was the same reason why he should not simply teleport to the Fortress of Hate. Besides, he was in no hurry. Ahriman and the rest of his sons had things well in hand on Sortiarus, and the reconstruction there would take months, if not years, even with the liberal use of sorcery to speed things up.

Still, the arrival of the Crimson King did not go unnoticed : on the entire daemon world, Sorcerers sensed the coming of a new power, while Warp-touched machines reacted in a variety of manners. Daemon engines stirred against their bindings, snarling and sniffing the air while their handlers checked the wards that prevented the infernal constructs from devouring their supposed masters. Warpsmiths and dark magi were struck by sudden flashes of inspiration and set to work, visions of new and terrible war-machines burning in their minds' eye. Old ambitions, long buried beneath layer after layer of bitterness and disappointment, once more rose to the fore. In their fortresses, warlords began to plot the downfall of their rivals with renewed energy, while battle-brothers stood taller and straighter at their post, clutching their weapons as their warrior instincts told them that a storm was on the horizon. And in the halls of dark industry, where billions toiled to craft the Fourth Legion's weapons of war, exhausted workers dreamt of freedom for the first time of their lives.

Such a disturbance could not go unanswered, of course. The lords of the fortresses closest to the site of Magnus' arrival sent patrols to discover what had happened. Squads of Legionaries in Rhinos followed the Primarch's trail, but none of them dared to get close once they were able to see him. Every Iron Warrior knew about the agreement between Perturabo and Ignis, the Warsmith having made sure his brothers were aware of the reason behind his departure lest one of them take advantage of his absence to steal his fortress of Khalan-Ghol. While few Iron Warriors had seen the Crimson King since his transformation into a Daemon Primarch, there weren't many red, one-eyed giants in the Eye of Terror. Magnus could sense the surprise and awe of his distant observers, and their wild speculation as to what his arrival heralded for their Legion. They sent their reports to their lords, and they too began to prepare for war – though unsure against whom it would be waged.

Magnus spent the days of his march to the Fortress of Hate lost in thought. Since the coming of Mortarion to the Planet of the Sorcerers, this was the first time he had been able to really _think_. The siege had required all of his attention, all of his power to reinforce his armies and counter the influence of the Death Lord. Even if he did not need rest, he still appreciated the opportunity to relax and let his mind wander, only needing to place one foot before the other, over and over. Anyone else walking upon Medrengard would have needed to be far more cautious, of course, but the predators of the wasteland fled before the coming Primarch, and the pitfalls and other obstacles simply failed to hinder his progress in any way. And so, Magnus thought, and dreamt awake.

His musings were turned toward the future and what it might bring. Ever since Ahzek had accomplished what Magnus had thought impossible, the Crimson King had been able to let go of the past. He still treasured the memory of what had been lost, but was no longer entirely bound to it, brooding endlessly on what had been taken from him by the vagaries of fate and the ignorance of fools. He thought of the new cities that would be built on Sortiarus now that the siege was over. There was much to rebuild, and with the most obvious threat to the Fifteenth Legion neutralized – for the time being, at least – the Thousand Sons would be able to expand. There were other worlds near Sortiarus that could be added to the Legion's domain, forming the core of the new empire they would create. Some were deserted and would need to be reshaped through great sorcery in order to be inhabitable. As for those already inhabited, their masters would either see the wisdom and benefits of joining the Thousand Sons, or be forced to do so at the edge of a blade.

 _In the end, no matter how much we change, we are all still our father's sons,_ Magnus thought. _All of us are ready to fall back on violence and conquest to achieve our aims, no matter how noble. But here, in the galaxy's underworld, what other choice do we have ? The other lords of the Eye respect only strength. Fortunately, thanks to Ahzek, we have plenty of that to go around._

Then there was the matter of the promise he had made to Perturabo through Ignis. Of all the Primarchs, Magnus alone knew why the Lord of Iron had come to Tallarn – Horus had probably known, but he was dead. He knew what laid buried on that world, though how Perturabo had learned of it was unknown even to him. Reclaiming it would grant them an immense boon toward the creation of the new empire the Crimson King had dreamt of when Ahriman had brought hope back to the Fifteenth Legion. But Tallarn laid far outside the Eye of Terror, deep within Imperial territory. Attacking it would not be easy – it would mean breaking free of the Eye in the first place. Not impossible, but difficult, especially if the Imperium had not been completely foolish and set defenses at the most obvious path – the Cadian Gate. Even once they had passed that obstacle, Tallarn was in the Segmentum Tempestus – reaching the world would be a long journey. Unless they brought enough forces to face the entire armies of the Imperium, they would need to keep to the paths that the Imperials did not dare to thread, keeping their destination a secret until it was too late. Conquering Tallarn in itself would not be easy – during the rebellion, Perturabo's Legion had spent considerable resources on it, only to fail when Horus had commanded them to abandon the planet and rejoin the rest of the war effort. Even if the Imperium had never found out just why the rebels had been willing to fight so hard for a seemingly worthless planet, it was unlikely it would have been left undefended in the aftermath. At the very least, the people of Tallarn were now hardened like few others in the galaxy, made strong by the inhospitability of their world.

The Crimson King pondered the ways by which the capture of Tallarn and the recovery of the artefact buried beneath its sands for a long time, his mind conjuring and discarding dozens of different plans of action. Finally, as Medrengard's black sun rose behind the horizon for the third time since Magnus had manifested on the daemon world, he arrived at the Fortress of Hate. On his way, he had passed through the abandoned ruins of a keep that had once defended the access to Perturabo's castle. He had felt the traces of Fifteenth Legion's sorcery in the ruins – this must have been where Ignis had fought alongside the Warsmith to gain an audience with Magnus' brother.

But unlike the Master of Ruin, Magnus did not need to prove his worth to enter Perturabo's lair. As he approached the wall, it rippled open, the entities flowing through it feeling the power of the approaching Primarch and reacting to their master's invitation. The Crimson King could feel them, billions and billions of them, spread across the material of the walls, able to reshape them in a moment. Apart from Warp-related technology, there were few things the Mechanicum had considered forbidden – and this reminded Magnus of one of them.

 _You are ill-placed to talk about_ anyone _delving into forbidden matters,_ came Perturabo's voice.

 _You are right,_ admitted Magnus. _I am coming in. We have much to talk about._

The hole in the wall closed immediately after Magnus passed through it, leaving no trace that it had ever existed. In the distance, the Iron Warriors who had followed Magnus' march through Medrengard let out breaths they hadn't realized they had been holding, and told their masters that the visiting Primarch had entered the domain of their own gene-sire. Soon, all of them received the same orders back : keep watch on the Fortress of Hate, and see what happened once the meeting between the Crimson King and the Lord of Iron took place. And so, for the first time since they had come to Medrengard, Iron Warriors from nearly every warhost of the Legion were within shooting distance of one another – and did _not_ open fire. Another change brought by the coming of Magnus.

It wouldn't be the last.

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AN : I don't think I will write the actual meeting between Perturabo and Magnus, if only because writing half the text (at least) in bold font seems like something inherently wrong. At the very least, the next part will take us to an entirely new part of the Eye of Terror, with new (but already familiar to you 40k fans) characters.

Oh, and the next chapter of Warband of the Forsaken Sons is finally starting to advance.

Zahariel out.


	31. The Honored Dead

AN : well, someone just suggested that I just don't write any portion of the dialogue between Perturabo and Magnus in bold letters, since both participants in the conversation would be Daemon Primarchs and therefore wouldn't be awed by each other's power. I am ... ashamed I didn't come up with that myself. Next update will be precisely that, but in the meantime, here is another annex to the main story. This was heavily inspired by the recent storyline for _Magic : The Gathering_.

Enjoy !

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 _The following document was recorded in the archives of the Fifteenth Legion on Sortiarus during the siege of the Planet of the Sorcerers by the armies of the Plague God. Once the siege was ended, the Exalted Sorcerer who recorded it moved it into the deepest and most obscure archives, while those involved in the events it depicts were silenced, one way or another._

Hundreds of years ago, on a world whose name isn't worth consigning to prosperity, the Prophet met the Awaiting God. For thousands of years, the people of the world had wandered without guidance, lost to the darkness of ignorance, living empty and meaningless lives. A few cities had been built, surrounded by vast agricultural fields, but no real progress had been accomplished in all that time, and the stories of a distant, more enlightened past had long since faded into barely remembered myth. But the Prophet's rise would change all of that.

On a stormy night, the Prophet sought refuge from the elements into a cave on the side of a mountain. Who he was before that event is unknown, for his life prior to encountering the Awaiting God was, by his own account, not deserving of being recorded, and ended that night any way. Within the cave, the Prophet met the avatar of the Awaiting God, who told him of His plans for the world and its people. The Awaiting God had created the world and its inhabitants long ago, and for a time He had been content with watching them grow and multiply on their own – but that time was at an end. Now, the Awaiting God would take a more active part in the fate of the world, and the Prophet would be His instrument in doing so.

The Awaiting God told the Prophet that the world was a place of trial, made so that they mortals living in it could prove their worth in His eyes. He taught the Prophet the rules by which one's worthiness was judged, and the reward that awaited those who proved themselves to Him : a return to life beyond death, imbued with power greater than those of any mortal human. In order to earn this reward, the faithful would need to fight and fall in battle, in a manner proving their strength, courage, and dedication to the Awaiting God. These Honored Dead, as He named them, would have to be prepared for the Promised Hour, their bodies laid to rest within this cave where His power was the strongest. And, when the stars were right and the Promised Hour came, the Awaiting God would restore them to life, and His true name would be revealed to the one most faithful, while the world entered a new age. His mind opened by the power of the Awaiting God, the Prophet began his work, writing what he had learned down and spreading the words of his new faith to others.

When the Prophet died, he only had a handful of disciples, lost and dispossessed men and women desperately searching for purpose in their lives. As per his command, these disciples prepared his body in accordance with the divine instructions he had received years ago, tattooing the holy symbols upon his body and laying it to rest within the cave where the Awaiting God had first touched the world. For some time following this, the disciples were distraught, unsure what to do – then, to their stupor, they realized that their master's corpse was not decaying. Though the temperature within the cave was only slightly cooler than outside, the mortal shell of their master appeared to be immune against the ravages of time. They called this a miracle, and spread word of it to the nearby settlements, prompting others to come and behold it for themselves.

The sight of a corpse being preserved against decay gave strength to the Prophet's teachings, and soon, the faith began to grow, the promise of a second, immortal life drawing new adherents. Hoping to earn their place in the cave, they lived their lives in accordance to the Code the Prophet had written, strengthening their bodies, honing their martial skills, and fighting one another to prove their worth. Entire wars were started between cities, not because of insults or the desire to claim land, but simply for opportunities to earn the approval of the priest caste. War itself was changed, the massed battles of the past abandoned in favor of one-on-one duels where no one would intervene, lest they deprive their comrade from the chance to show his worth to the priests who observed every battle. Sometimes, when conflicts raged across the land, it would take weeks or even months before a priest could arrive to observe the battle and judge the worthiness of the combatants : in that case, the armies would simply camp in front of one another, and the warriors would train, awaiting the coming of the holy man.

The priests themselves, were always interred within the cave upon their demise, granted that honor in return for their dedicated service to the Awaiting God. There were always the same number of them alive : nine, like the Prophet's nine disciples, each priest able to track his lineage back to one of the first priests through a master-apprentice chain. One of the nine was the arch-priest, leader of the entire cult of the Awaiting God, chosen by his peers upon the death of the previous incumbent. He alone was granted the privilege of entering the deepest part of the holy cavern, where the Awaiting God could commune with His most faithful servant and issue new commands.

And so, year after year, the cave was filled with the bodies of the Honored Dead. Workers carved new tombs, increasing the size of the cave dramatically – but the preserving properties of the Awaiting God's blessing remained undiminished, spreading through any new passages. The cave became a mausoleum, with row after row of warriors, clad in their restored armor and clutching their weapons, waiting for the promised hour of their rebirth. Political maneuvering also influenced the development of the complex, with an entire section being reserved for the priests, while champions of various cities were buried together rather than laid to rest next to those who had been their enemies in life. The teachings of the Awaiting God told that all the Honored Dead were equal in His sight, but the pilgrims who came to pray at the tombs were still feuding with one another, and the priests overseeing the cave sought to avoid conflict in this hallowed ground.

While warriors trained and fought for the honor of a place among the Honored Dead, others sought to divine the time of the Awaiting God's promise. While only the nine priests were able to choose the worthy among the fallen, the teachings of the Prophet were widely circulated, the better to guide those who sought to walk the path he had shown them. Dwelling on the last lines of the holy text, the ones announcing how, "when the stars were right", the Awaiting God would return the spirits of the Honored Dead to their prepared bodies, they tried to interpret the occult meaning of the words. Debate raged among the scholarly community about how long remained until the Awaiting God emptied the Mausoleum and all chances to join the Honored Dead were lost.

Unable to find answers in the Prophet's words, they turned to mystical means, and soon a new caste appeared on the world : one of oracles, using arcane arts to divine the future. Their sight expanded by mystical rituals, they were able to perceive hints of what may yet be, and those who desired to join the Honored Dead sought their advice on how to fulfill what they believed to be their destinies. The coming of the oracles also revealed how long there was until the promised hour : several hundreds of years, though no oracle could make a more precise prediction. The priests declared that this was the Awaiting God's will, to keep His people from growing complacent and keep them doing their best to prove their worth until the very last moment. After a decree of the Awaiting God to the current arch-priest, it was declared that the greatest oracles would be allowed to join the Honored Dead, their ability to interpret the ever-changing tides of the future being seen as proof of worthiness in the eyes of the Awaiting God.

Other scholars wondered just what fate would await the rest of the world once the promised hour came to pass. The holy texts spoke of a "new age", forged by the reborn Honored Dead, in which "all the faithful shall find their place", but they were remarkably lacking in details. Some thought that the Honored Dead would lead the living into a new era of prosperity, while others believed that there would be one final opportunity for the devout to prove their worth before the world itself was brought to an end. Needless to say, those who held the latter view were regarded with distrust, considered extremists and lunatics – even heretics by some. Some actually turned against the worship of the Awaiting God, decrying the promise of immortality as a lie and trying to stop their brethren from pursuing a place among the Honored Dead. Over the centuries, these Forsworn slew several priests, and once even struck at the Mausoleum itself. _That_ particular act was followed by a brutal purge of all suspected Forsworn through the entire world, a bloody and terrible time in which thousands were slain, less than one in ten actually harboring heretical ideas. The Forsworn fought back, and many of those they killed were welcomed among the Honored Dead, the manner of their demise proving their dedication to the Awaiting God beyond all doubt.

A thousand years after the Prophet encountered the avatar of the Awaiting God, the Promised Hour came. The halls of the Mausoleum were filled with thousands of the Honored Dead, all of them prepared and awaiting the hour of their resurrection. As the arch-priest was communing with the Awaiting God in the Mausoleum's sanctum, the power of the divine lord poured through him, stronger than ever before, transforming the arch-priest into the instrument of the Awaiting God's will more completely than even the Prophet himself. He rent apart the veil between worlds, and the skies grew dark as spirits descended from the heavens to claim the bodies of the Honored Dead as their own. The sigils on their skin shone bright, and they rose from their tombs, possessed of new and terrible powers. The warriors who had proven their worth in battle took up their weapons once more, the blades fusing with their hands as their armor merged with their skin. The oracles rose in the air, lightning crackling over their robed bodies. The eyes of the Honored Dead glowed with eldritch light, and their faces were masks of serenity as they left the Mausoleum and brought the judgement of the Awaiting God upon the world. And many did not pass.

The Honored Dead rampaged across the world, slaughtering most of those who crossed their path. Of those who fell to their knees in worship before the agents of the Awaiting God, some were spared, just like the eight priests had been spared. These joined in the purge of the world's population, slaying the unworthy at the side of the Honored Dead. Eventually the people began to fight back, with the Forsworn emerging from hiding to lead them. Others, who had fought and trained all their lives to join the Honored Dead, were struck with horror at the consequences of the Promised Hour, and refused to submit to the Awaiting God's will. Believing the immortality granted to the worthy to be a lie, they renounced their faith, and joined the Forsworn in the war against the Honored Dead, bestowing upon them a new, heretical name : that of "Daemonhosts".

The skies of the world burned with the wrath of the Awaiting God at their defiance, but it was futile. In the end, the last of the Forsworn was slaughtered, the Honored Dead and their faithful servants triumphant at last. Then, the Awaiting God revealed His grand design, the purpose He had in mind for the army that His worshipers had prepared for Him. Once again, acting through His arch-priest, He tore the fabric of reality, and the host of the Honored Dead was carried through space onto a new realm, to fight in a new, greater war. Their skills honed by fighting against mortal foes, the living and reborn were faced with a legion of putrescent creatures who were battling great warriors bearing the sacred crescent moon of the Awaiting God. Though many of the Honored Dead and nearly all of the faithful fell in that first battle, victory was secured in the end.

And this is how I came to be here, telling my story to the lords of this new and wondrous world. I was the last of the arch-priests of the Awaiting God, the one through which He gave His blessing to the Honored Dead, making their prepared flesh into vessels for the higher spirits. Me and the other priests were brought along the Honored Dead to this world after the Awaiting God left my flesh, no longer needing me for that particular service – but He still had a purpose for me, to tell you this tale, that it might be known. Like that of the Prophet, my name is irrelevant, a detail that isn't worthy of being recorded in the annals of History. Only one name matters now, and that is the name of the Awaiting God, revealed to me in the Promised Hour, as was foretold a hundred decades ago :

Ahriman.


	32. A Council of Brothers

AN : hey, new chapter. Not much to say about this one - I am much more excited about the next one. Also : the next part of the Roboutian Heresy is complete ! I should post it later today.

Enjoy !

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'I recognize these stars,' said Magnus, looking at the astral projection floating above the two Daemon Primarchs. In fact, he remembered when he had last seen them with his own eye, what seemed an eternity ago. 'Brooding over the past isn't good for you, brother.'

'That is rich, coming from you,' sneered Perturabo. 'I remember when you were so hung up over your failures that you let your world burn around you, and then sat and did nothing but mourn and dwell upon what could have been while we were fighting across all the galaxy for the right to decide Mankind's future. Did your genius sons teach you that wisdom ?'

'Yes,' admitted the Crimson King, letting the provocation pass without raising to it. 'And as you say, I really needed it. They pulled me out of my obsession, away from missed chances and lost opportunities, and back to the present and what might yet be accomplished.'

The two Daemon Primarchs met in the same chamber Ignis had received his audience with the Lord of Iron. They stood in the heart of the Fortress of Hate, surrounded by the lesser Neverborn who were the structure's only other inhabitants. Magnus could feel their presence – thousands and thousands of them, all feeding off Perturabo's aura like vermin. They were too weak to actually force a recognition of form upon the human mind, instead appearing as vague silhouettes of shadow and bone that radiated malice and biterness – their main diet here in Perturabo's lair.

Like all daemonworlds, Medrengard existed in a state halfway between reality and the Warp's own tides. Neverborn, once manifested, could sustain their existences indefinitely – but that did not mean their immortal hungers did not still drive their every action. They fed on emotions, and no emotions were strongest than those of a Primarch. And so, the malevolent spirits of Medrengard had flocked to the Fortress of Hate, drawn there by Perturabo's brooding anger and discontent at a fate most cruel. Yet none of them dared to come close to the Lord of Iron, instead lingering in the shadows of his castle, watching him from afar. Even non-sapient daemons knew better than to risk the fury of one of the Emperor's own sons, especially one of those who had risen to daemonhood.

All in all, the Fortress of Hate struck Magnus as a singularily unpleasant place to live in, filled with nothing but daemons and the legacies of the past. On his way to the chamber, Magnus had passed many of the Fortress' other rooms, opened to his sight when they had been shrouded from Ignis'. He had seen halls filled with technological wonders plundered from conquered worlds during the Great Crusade and the rebellion; mausoleum-like corridors hosting the preserved remains of hundreds of xenos breeds, and cathedrals to Ruin that had spawned by themselves within the Fortress' living, flowing architecture. Still more Neverborn filled these spaces, in grotesque parodies of pilgrims praying at the altars, which were inscribed with the runes of Chaos. Magnus did not doubt that there were many more rooms that he had not seen, those in which Perturabo kept the secrets he did not want his brother to see – his workshops, for instance.

'You need to get out more, brother,' said Magnus, glancing at the daemonic silhouettes observing the two Primarchs from alcoves carved into the walls, far above where they stood. 'It will take us months to prepare our attack on Tallarn, and I wouldn't want you to spend them all here.'

' _Months_ ?' growled Perturabo. 'Are you trying to weasel out of our bargain, Magnus ? My sons bled and died to free this cesspit of sorcery and mutation that you call a homeworld ! Tallarn in the Segmentum Tempestus, a long way from the Eye of Terror even if we use your Legion's sorcery to quicken our passage through the Warp. We should issue the command to our Legions to depart our fortresses and meet up before sailing for Tallarn at once !'

'Peace, brother,' called out Magnus, raising his hands in appeasement. 'I do not intend on breaking the bargain we made through Ignis. But surely you must see that an attack on Tallarn will require extensive preparations. The Imperium will not let us simply wander there and take what we desire.'

'The Imperium is _weak_ ,' replied Perturabo derisively. 'While you and your Legion remained within the Eye, my sons still have entire dominions out there, in the blind spots of our father's failed kingdom. They send me reports on what they see – what we fought and bled to build and our brothers foolishly sacrificed themselves to defend has become a frail parody of what it once was. The mortals who have usurped _our_ right to rule are more preoccupied with their positions and power than with the defense of the Imperium, and most of them don't even believe we exist.'

'There are still those who do,' cautioned Magnus, 'and they will react to any move on our part. During the Siege, I saw one of Malcador's contigencies, and believe me : the Imperium is far from being as defenseless as it appears. It will take careful planning to succeed in our shared goal.'

'Do not try to play me for a fool, Magnus,' snarled the Lord of Iron. 'I know the real reason you joined Horus' rebellion at the end. It wasn't Lorgar's preaching, nor Horus' persuasion that convinced you. You only joined us for your own gains, hiding your true motives from the rest of us as you pursued your own schemes. I will _not_ have my Legion involved in another of your ill-fated plots without knowing what your endgame is. Speak plainly and without deceit, _or else._ '

'I swear that my intentions are as Ignis told you : to build a new empire, here in the Eye of Terror, one that will be based on illumination and strength, rather than willful ignorance and weakness. The past is the past, brother,' continued the Crimson King, growing more agitated. It had been a long time since he had felt such passion, spoken with such conviction, and part of him revelled in the sheer joy of it. 'We must not forget it, but neither must we dwell upon it overmuch.'

'Maybe so, but my sons will not let go so easily. They carry the same grudges as I, and almost all of them will look upon our alliance with suspicion. They will think as I did – and still do : that you and your Legion are simply using us for your own gain, like all the others.'

'Yet you accepted my offer,' pointed out the Crimson King. 'Why, if you think like this ?'

'You _know_ damn well why,' growled Perturabo, his grip tightening around his warhammer. Magnus made no reaction to the hostility suddenly radiating from his brother once more, knowing that any provocation could cause the Lord of Iron's temper to erupt and ruin everything.

'Illuminate me, please,' he said, carefully. 'I have recently been reminded that I am not omniscient, and wish to make sure I am not making any erroneous assumptions.'

'I was so close, Magnus,' said Perturabo after several tense seconds. ' _So close._ A few more days, weeks at most, and I would have had it. If Horus' emissary hadn't intervened … If I had been more open with him about what I sought to accomplish on Tallarn, perhaps … But me and my sons had just escaped the Eye of Terror, in the wake of Fulgrim's betrayal. I was unsure of every brother, save Horus himself. And there were … disquieting reports from my warriors on the field that led me to suspect that Alpharius' get were involved somehow, and I wasn't sure it was on our side.'

The Lord of Iron sighed, and the sound was like the collapse of kingdoms.

'So much distrust, Magnus. You only truly joined us at the end, when we were all preparing for the final battle, but let me tell you : it was bad. It's one of the reasons we lost in the end.'

'Then let us not repeat this mistake and be open with one another, shall we ? I will be the one to start. My sons are rebuiding Sortiarus, and integrating the reinforcements Ahriman brought with him into my Legion's armies. Somehow, he found Kelbor-Hal, and made an alliance with him. He doesn't know about Tallarn, though, and I think we both agree it's better to keep it that way. The idea of the Dark Mechanicum experimenting on the artefact is … disquieting, even for me.'

'We are in agreement there,' said Perturabo, his eyes glazing over as he contemplated some apocalyptic scenario where the rebellious tech-priests got their hands on Tallarn's treasure. 'Our campaign will be a matter for Legionaries and those among our slaves we can be sure won't turn on us.' Magnus didn't remark on the word Perturabo used to describe the mortals in thrall to their Legions, knowing better than to needlessly anger his brother. 'But while we are on the subject of being open to one another, I have a question for you, Magnus. I am not surprised you knew about my Iron Warriors fighting at Tallarn, but how did you know _why_ we were fighting there ?'

'I am the Crimson King,' replied Magnus, shrugging. 'I know a lot of things. In my meditations during the rebellion and afterwards, I saw many of the universe's secrets, revealed to me by the Power who holds my soul in his grasp. Tallarn's past was one of them.'

'Then the Gods know of our alliance and our plan to go to Tallarn,' seethed Perturabo, though his anger was no longer directed at his brother. 'That is … regrettable. I was hoping to use the artefact to break our chains to them, but if your master let you come here – let you made the offer in the first place, let alone gave you the knowledge of it – then it's unlikely that I will be allowed to succeed.' The Lord of Iron tightened his fists in frustration. 'Even if we do succeed in building a new empire, it will still be one bound to _them_ , Magnus. Mankind will never be free of the Dark Gods' influence.'

'Mankind has _never_ been free from their influence,' replied the Crimson King, his voice heavy with the burden of terrible knowledge. 'That is what Lorgar learned before any of us, what drove him to do everything he did. From the moment the first primate picked up a rock and bashed in his brother's skull, Humanity has belonged to the Powers. All we can do is forge as best an existence as we can while under their gaze. Anything else will lead us down our father's path – or worse, the Eldar's. That is _one_ lesson Ahzek hasn't learned yet, you know. He still thinks himself free.'

'Then he is either a great fool, or wiser than both of us,' sighed Perturabo again. 'Yet even if we are to remain subservient to the Gods – or the "Powers", as you call them – Tallarn's artefact will still be of use to us. Your patron, at least, seems to be willing to indulge in the … _changes_ your Legion brought to the Eye since the Rubric was cast. If we are fortunate, this will continue. And if we are not … Then I guess we will see just how smart your First Captain really is. Now, enough talking about things over which we have no control. What is your plan for reaching Tallarn ?'

For the first time since the Great Crusade, Perturabo and Magnus began to talk strategy, planning the invasion of an hostile world. The Siege of Terra didn't count – that had been Horus' show, with only limited input from his brothers, another reason why they had failed according to the Lord of Iron. The Crimson King used his powers and Perturabo's cosmic observation array to turn his gaze upon Tallarn, and together the two Daemon Primarchs identified strategic weaknesses and possible avenues of attack. They talked about the forces under their respective commands and the ships in their fleet, wheighing the cost to a stealthy journey against the need to bring enough forces to ensure victory. Soon, they decided that subtlety and speed were their best bet. They would strike with overwhelming force, recover the artefact, and leave before the wider Imperium could react.

'This will not be easy,' said Magnus once they had finished planning – some nine hours after they had begun. 'It will require cooperation between our Legions to be exemplary, at a level not seen since the Great Crusade. But when it works … our alliance will be stronger than ever.'


	33. Discord in Harmony

As the Thousand Sons destroyed the last forces of the Plague God still on Sortiarus and Magnus the Red talked with Perturabo about their next campaign, the Dark Gods opposed to the Fifteenth Legion's rise did not rest idle. Three distinct divine intellects were partially turned on the task of bringing down the sons of Magnus, and plans were set in motion throughout the Eye of Terror and beyond. In the Empyrean, billions of daemons set to work to do the will of their God.

On the Rings of Artek-Ker, the call of the Blood God echoed, sending the daemon hordes of the First Ring into a frenzy that saw them leave the innermost Ring and spread throughout the entire system, bringing destruction to many Dark Mechanicum strongholds. Eight hosts fought across the Rings, each led by a mighty Bloodthirster. Kelbor-Hal, from his fortress on the Second Ring, marshalled the legions under his command and set them against the Khornate Neverborn. Though the forces of the former Fabricator-General held their own and managed to push back the daemonic assaults, research across the Rings slowed to a crawl, and many valuable assets were lost in the conflict. Many of the Dark Mechanicum's tech-thralls also succumbed to the pull of the Blood God, forming debased mobs that rampaged in the forge-cities until they were hunted down. Nevertheless, the dark magi took it all in stride : this was the Eye of Terror, after all.

With a great number of his mortal servants slain during the failed attack on Sortiarus, Nurgle's power was waning once more, as it had done countless times before when the tides of disease in the Materium faded. The God of Life and Death turned his gaze outward, beyond the Eye of Terror and into the overpopulated worlds of the Imperium. There, he sought the souls most exposed to his touch, and breathed infection within them. Overnight, on a hundred worlds of the Imperium, men and women lost their souls while they slept, swallowed by the Plague God and replaced by simulacras that would go along with their lives as before, spreading the gifts of Nurgle to all around them while not showing any of their symptoms. It would be many years before the harvest of this seeding could be reaped, but if there was one quality the Plague God had, it was patience.

But it was the Dark Prince whose actions would cause the most trouble to the Fifteenth Legion, at least in the short term. The armies of Slaanesh's devotees were not expended like those of Nurgle, nor scattered across the Eye like Khorne's. While the Legion dedicated to the Blood God had been shattered at Skalathrax, the bulk of the Emperor's Children had been kept together by the will of a single individual, one who had once served the Dark Prince with all his soul, and would do so again. His name was Fabius Bile, and his experiments during the Heresy had made him a legend amidst the Traitor Legions. When Khârn the Betrayer had caused the collapse of the Third and Twelfth Legions' hierarchies during the Battle of Skalathrax, the Chief Apothecary of the Emperor's Children had managed to rally much of the Third Legion in a time when its Lord Commanders were either missing or dead. Bile's reputation and ruthless intellect – as well as the debt many of the surviving officers owed to him due to the sensory enhancements he had brought to their bodies – had been enough to keep the Slaanesh-touched Third Legion from breaking apart. Many Companies had still been lost, of course, and the Emperor's Children's numbers were much diminished – but they still had gotten out of Skalathrax in better shape than the World Eaters.

In time, like most Traitor Legions, the Emperor's Children had claimed a world of the Eye as their own. Many of the wanderers sought the rumored daemonworld that had been gifted to their missing Primarch, Fulgrim, but those who were of a more reasonable bent knew that this was the new homeworld of the Third Legion, not some distant planet that might very well be nothing more than a myth. The world was called Harmony, a wordplay on the original Eldar name that amused the sons of Fulgrim to no end. And, like most worlds trapped within the Eye of Terror at the moment of Slaanesh's birth, or dragged into its tides since then, it was a vision of pagan hell made manifest.

The decadence of the Emperor's Children, which had been revealed to all in its full horror during the Siege of Terra, had not diminished since the defeat of the rebellion. In fact, it had become much, much worse, and within the Eye of Terror, the sons of Fulgrim were free to indulge in their darkest desires with little concern even for the laws of the material universe themselves. In the few years since they had settled the planet, billions of human slaves had died on the planet in one horrible way or another. Some had been tortured to death, their flesh devoured before their very eyes. Others had been dissolved in vast tanks, turned into drugs for their transhuman masters. Some were kept alive in cages hung up from the cities' elegant spires, their nervous systems rewired so that they felt a constant mix of agony and ecstasy, their screams broadcast across the entire planet.

To the Emperor's Children, Harmony was a paradise. To all but the most twisted of their slaves, it was hell, a place of damnation and suffering. None among these hordes of human flesh knew of the Dark City of Commoragh, but even if they had, the horrors visited upon them would not have paled in comparison to those inflicted upon the captives of the Dark Eldars. Yet there were places on Harmony that even the Emperor's Children avoided if they could hel pit, places where even they feared to thread. Daemon Princes of Slaanesh and Keepers of Secrets walked the surface of the world, setting up their own private pleasure palaces, where only their own servants entered. _Things_ born at the moment of the Youngest God's birth hid in the ruins of Eldar cities, preying upon any foolish enough to enter them. In the deepest tunnels underneath the cities of the Emperor's Children, the leftover experiments of the Legion's Apothecaries slithered on cold stone, moaning the agony of their existence and seeking living flesh upon which to relieve their torment.

And then, of course, there were the private laboratories of Fabius Bile, which most in the Legion saw as in a category all of themselves. Daemons could be bargained with or banished, mutated spawns could be put by the sword or the bolter – but Fabius, Fabius was something else entirely.

The Chief Apothecary's stronghold was bigger than any other structure on Harmony, and dozens of Apothecaries and other fleshsmiths worked their dreadful arts there, some having come from other Legions to learn from an unchallenged master. Thousands of slaves were brought in every day to serve as test subjects – some even came back out alive, though always changed beyond recognition. Legionaries seeking the thrill of physical reconstruction and enhancement were welcome – they provided much more durable test subjects. But the personal labs of the Chief Apothecary (and, though no one called him that, acting Legion Master) were known to all as completely off-limits. Only Bile himself and a handful of assistants – all of which he had genetically tailored for the task – were allowed there. Whenever the master was working inside them, he did not lock the door behind him : he had made it clear that whoever disturbed his work would find themselves part of it immediately. For all but the most deluded, that threat was enough to ensure his peace, and the guards posted at the door were more than capable of dealing with the rest. The true reason he kept the door unlocked when within his lab was very simple : if things went very, _very_ wrong, he would need to be out of there and purge the entire section of the fortress as quickly as possible.

So, when the door to his lab opened, Bile's first thought was a question : why hadn't he heard any sound of battle indicating that his guards were being slain ? Then his nose caught the scent of the new arrival, and his agitation and annoyance grew as he realized the answer to his question. There was no mistaking that particular blend of chemicals and xenos grafts, especially since Bile never forgot anything related to his own experiments. Slowly, carefully, he laid low his tools next to his current experiment – a captive Raven Guard captured during the Siege of Terra and for which he had paid quite a price – and turned to greet the new arrival. He was still covered in the blood of his experimental subject, but he knew that the visitor wouldn't mind such trifling details.

'Lord-Commander Eidolon,' he greeted the Terminator-clad Legionary, before casting a cursory glance at the warrior accompanying the former lord of the Third Legion. 'Lucius,' he said to him with a simple nod. 'You are aware that these are my _private_ quarters, yes ? If you wanted to talk with me, you needed only ask when I wasn't busy with such important matters.'

Most people would have trembled at the sight of the two warlords standing before Bile. They certainly cut an imposing figure, Lucius with his scar-covered pale face and filed teeth, and Eidolon with his bloated throat that didn't quite hide the stitches where Bile himself had sewn his head back into place. But Fabius, as he had learned from a very early age, wasn't most people. Both of the intruders owed him their lives – literally, as it had been his ministrations that had brought both of them back from the dead, albeit under very different circumstances. He had seen them rendered down to nothing more than slabs of dead meat and bone, and forced their corpses back into action with the application of his tremendous intellect. After doing something like that, it was hard – impossible, in fact – to ever be impressed by their power, considerable as it might be.

'My apologies for the intrusion, Chief Apothecary,' said Eidolon with a total lack of sincerity that he at least didn't insult Bile by attempting to hide. 'I have only just arrived to Harmony, and I couldn't wait to meet the one responsible for saving our Legion from the World Eaters' barbarity and offer him my thanks in person. Our Primarch is most pleased by your achievements, Fabius.'

" _Our Primarch"._ That wasn't good. That wasn't good at all. What had that idiot done now ?

'Fulgrim sent you here ?' asked Bile, trying to force his face into the appropriate expression of reverence at the Phoenician's mention. 'You know where our father is ?'

'I know where he _was_ ,' replied Eidolon, evidently revelling in the sensation of knowing something Bile didn't for a change, 'and where he _will_ be. While you played your games here, I was with him – first when we killed Guilliman, and then on the world granted to him by our God, learning the deepest mysteries of Slaanesh at his side. And fortunately for you, it seems you will have a chance to do the same soon, for Fulgrim has a use for his Legion once more.'

'What do you mean ?' Bile's heart sank as he asked. He already suspected what the answer was going to be – despite not being as involved in events throughout the Eye since he had established Harmony as the Third Legion's headquarters, he still heard much about what happened in the Traitor Legions' place of exile. Unfortunately, Eidolon's reply was exactly as he had expected :

'Our Primarch desires to pay a visit to his upstart brother the Cyclops, and teach him a well-deserved lesson in humility while he is at it. I am to take command of the forces you have gathered here, and we will rendez-vous with the rest of Fulgrim's fleet and sail for Sortiarus. Once we get there … well. It will depend on our father's mood, I suppose.'

As Eidolon laughed at his own attempt at a jest, Bile looked at Lucius. The swordsman was grinning, his hand on the pommel of his blade. Lucius' pride was just as monstrous as Eidolon's, if not more so, but the swordsman was far more observant than the Lord-Commander, and he had spent much more time with Bile recently. He knew what Bile's reaction to Eidolon's impetuous order was going to be, and he was enjoying the anticipation. The only question was, which side would he choose ? Even someone as intelligent as Bile couldn't guess – the sane couldn't predict the actions of the insane, after all. Another glance revealed to the Chief Apothecary what had happened to his guards : they were lying on the ground, leaking their lifeblood through a dozen lethal wounds each, the smell of their death covered by Eidolon's bouquet. Like the assistants who were skittering in the shadows, the two hulking mutants had been genetically tailored for the task, but Bile had never been satisfied with their performance. They wouldn't have stood a chance before either Eidolon or Lucius, let alone the two of them, and had been slain before they had even known what was happening. No matter – they could easily be replaced.

With the situation clear in his mind, Fabius Bile began to ponder his options. He could accept Eidolon's orders, of course, surrender his officious command of the Third Legion and let the Lord-Commander lead the armada he had gathered toward Sortiarus. But he had had plans for that army. His attempts to crack the genetic code of the Emperor's gene-wrought marvels had encountered setback after setback. The sample he had obtained from the Alpha Legion had turned out to be useless, corrupted by accident or ill intent, he could not say and cared less. The blood of Ferrus Manus he had received from Fulgrim during the Heresy to create a clone of the Gorgon who would still be the Phoenician's brother despite his betrayal had been lost in the confusion at Iydris. On Terra, he had thought that he finally succeeded, before witnessing his brothers' desecration of Mankind's homeworld and realizing, in a moment of unpleasant revelation, that all of his work had been tainted by the malevolent touch of the Warp-born entity his Legion now called its master. With his eyes opened, he had razed his field laboratory amidst the ruins of Merika and left the Throneworld, long before Horus' ill-fated gambit to draw out the Emperor.

He had been so close, so many times, but he had always failed. His mind had not been his own – the influence of the Youngest God had deprived him of his true intellect. No longer, though. He had long since rejected the indulgences of his brothers, turned aside from their path of decadence in favor of pursuing his own goals. The Emperor's Children were still useful tools, which was why he had made the effort to rescue them from dissolution at Skalathrax. The armada of the Lost and the Damned who called Harmony home was supposed to be the army with which he would claim what he needed to complete his great work : the body of Horus Lupercal, which laid in stasis in the Sons of Horus' greatest stronghold within the Eye of Terror. With access to a Primarch's body and the genetic samples from all Legions already in his possession, there was no limit to what Bile would be able to accomplish. He would create an army of Primarchs, and they would lead the armies of the Eye of Terror to victorious conquest of the galaxy, resuming the Great Crusade and allowing Bile to direct the rebirth of Mankind from the Imperium's funeral pyre into a new, glorious form.

But breaking into Lupercalia would be impossible without his army – the army Eidolon wanted to take away on some foolish attack against the Fifteenth Legion. Even if Bile managed to avoid being involved in what was surely a disaster in waiting – which he doubted he could – the Emperor's Children would be decimated, and the breaking he had managed to avoid at Skalathrax would finally take place as warbands fled the battlefield and sought their own, easier battles. And even if they won, which considering what Bile knew of the Thousand Sons' recent activities was a long shot, the Legion would belong to Fulgrim once more, and his cronies like Eidolon. The army he had built, the army he _needed_ to fulfill his goal, would be lost to him either way. _Again_ , the machinations of the Dark Prince would ruin Bile's work and plans.

Which led to his second option, the one he and Lucius had both known he would choose from the beginning. Less than a second after Eidolon had finished talking – more than enough time for Bile to think – the Chief Apothecary struck the Lord-Commander in the chest with the Rod of Torment, unleashing the full power of the daemon weapon in the blow. His armor cracking, Eidolon was sent flying by the Rod's unnatural power, crashing into the wall above the gate through which he had entered before falling to the ground with thundering sound. As the Terminator struggled to rise to his feet, a stream of curses mixed with laughter leaving his lips, Bile turned to Lucius :

'Do you agree with this madness ?' he asked, the Rod of Torment still held tight in his grasp, though it would need some time to recharge after the attack it had unleashed.

'There is someone in the Fifteenth Legion that I look forward to killing,' simply replied the swordsman, before drawing his sword and striking at Bile's throat with impossible speed.

Most Astartes would have been caught utterly by surprise by the sheer speed of Lucius, but Bile was well familiar with the abilities of the twisted Captain. The moment he had decided that his best course of action was to kill Eidolon and sail for Lupercalia before word could spread, the Chirurgeon hanging from his back had injected him with a specifically designed cocktails of stimulants that allowed him to match the speed of the duelist. He dodged the blow and raised his other hand, holding his needle pistol. Lucius twisted around, dodging the shots or deflecting them mid-air with his blade, laughing like the madman that he was. Clicking his tongue in disapproval, Bile stepped backward before reaching behind him and pushing an activation rune on a panel control, knowing exactly where it was without needing to turn to look. The hilt of the Rod of Torment pressed the rune, and a chorus of quickly silenced alarms rose through the laboratory as stasis fields were deactivated and containment pods were opened. In the lab's shadows, Bile's assistants screamed in renewed terror and covered, all too aware of the coming danger.

Half-formed clones and shambling monstrosities emerged from their prisons, filling the laboratory with the sound of their moans. Their minds long since shattered by terrible pain and experiments, they lashed blindly at everything around them with claw and tentacle. Most of them simply tore into one another, but some were close enough to the three Astartes in the room that they were instead drawn to them. Bile himself had nothing to fear from them – the rune he had pressed only released those of his experiments who had undergone treatments instilling obedience to him. But Lucius and Eidolon were swarmed by the Chief Apothecary's failed creations. While the swordsman was cutting his way through a tide of mutated flesh, Bile slowly walked toward Eidolon, who had just managed to regain his footing and was bludgeoning his attackers to death with his fists, not having had the opportunity to sling his power hammer from his back.

'Fabius !' roared the Lord-Commander when he saw his older brother approach. His voice had grown even louder than it had been after the last time he had passed under Bile's knives, no doubt a "gift" from his Warp-born master. 'Do you think your treachery will go unpunished ? You defy the will of the Dark Prince with your refusal to submit to Fulgrim's command !'

'I don't serve your foul god,' hissed Fabius, before ramming the Rod of Torment into Eidolon's open, distended mouth. The eyes of the Lord-Commander bulged as the daemon weapon unleashed its power directly inside him, breaking apart organs and tearing blood vessels. When Bile ripped his weapon free, Eidolon fell to the ground and remained lying there, twitching as nerves burst apart.

'You killed him,' said Lucius, his tone incredulous. The swordsman's armor was covered in gore, and bloody pieces of mutated flesh surrounded him, but he appeared completely unharmed.

'Hardly,' replied Bile, shaking his head. 'I know exactly how durable he is. It would take me a lot more work to make sure he was permanently dealt with … just like it would with you.'

Despite all his arrogance and all that he had accomplished over the years, Lucius took a step back at the look Fabius directed at him. His previous bravado was gone now. Bile knew about Lucius' so-called "immortality" - he had been there the first time the warrior had come back from a well-deserved demise. He understood most of the metaphysical workings responsible for it, and he knew how to bypass them. If the swordsman continued to oppose him, he would remove his arms, legs, eyes and tongue, and leave him to rot suspended in one of his Dreadnought preservation coffins, buried deep beneath the surface of Harmony for the rest of eternity, to go mad from sensory deprivation without every dying. Let's see the "Eternal" come back from _that_.

'You won't be able to keep the Third Legion from Fulgrim, Bile,' declared the duelist, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice. 'Eidolon made sure everyone knew of the Primarch's command. Most of the warbands are already preparing for departure. Even without the Lord-Commander to guide them, they will still go to Sortiarus to fight the Thousand Sons. You have still _lost._ '

' _Lost ?_ ' sneered the Chief Apothecary. 'You speak as if I _care_ for command of the Third Legion. I never wanted it, you arrogant fool. I only stepped up because all of you Captains and Lord-Commanders were either dead or too engrossed in your decadence to keep the Legion together, and I only cared about _that_ because I thought the Emperor's Children could still serve my purpose !'

It had been a long time since Fabius Bile had lost his temper. But now seemed like a good time for it. With a wordless scream of anger, he punched one of the still-closed pods, sending cracks across the translucent surface – and jolts of pain through his ageing knuckles, despite his power armor. Even with his back turned, Lucius remained immobile, as did the experiments that were left.

'But now I see that it was mistake to think so,' he continued, talking to himself more than to his audience. ' _Now_ I see that our entire Legion is lost to the whims of that foul entity spawned by the Eldar's weakness. I _knew_ this, but I thought you all could still be used, directed to a purpose beyond petty indulgence – but clearly I was wrong, if all it takes is the call of the lord who abandoned you to shatter my influence. Very well, then. Go with him,' he waved to Lucius and the open door, 'and die for the amusement of your master if you want. Fulgrim will cast you all aside again as soon as he grows bored, and call you again when his _owner_ needs you for its plans. _I_ have other, _higher_ purposes and goals, and I will no longer waste my time pampering you selfish, deluded _infants._ '

'Now,' he continued after a deep breath, ' _get out_. And you,' he barked to a couple of the more well-developed experiments while kicking Eidolon's head, 'drag _this_ out of here.'

Once both intruders were out and the gate was closed once more – with its locks activated this time – the now former master of the Third Legion turned his mind toward his next move. With a thought, Bile's armor sent another signal to the complex machines filling his laboratory, initiating yet another protocol he had hoped he would never have to use. Samples and choice subjects began to be moved to safe locations, while some of his most loyal apprentices received pre-recorded messages that let them know what he expected of them. Some of them, at least, would obey their instructions, and he didn't need the others. Having dealt with his anger through his outburst – exactly as he had planned – the Chief Apothecary was now entirely focused on the future.

The first step was to abandon Harmony. Without his hold on the Third Legion, keeping his facilities secure would be impossible, at least until he had the time to clone and equip an entire army to defend it. With as many enemies as he had – and today's events would only add a few more to the list – he could not afford to remain static any longer. His ship, the _Pulchritudinous_ , had already been fitted with appropriate equipment – he would transfer his more precious resources to it. Furthermore, he still had a core group of Legionaries who were loyal to him and him only – warriors from other Traitor Legions that had passed under his knives and emerged with more than they had bargained for. There were also the hordes of mutants and replicaes in the fortress. Not all would be coming with him, but he would not be defenseless, wherever he chose to go next.

But where to go ? The Eye of Terror was vast, and there were many who would welcome him and pay for his services – the warlords of the Eye always needed soldiers for their petty wars. Yet this would not give him access to what he needed to continue his research. His work on Astartes' genetics had hit a wall, and only a sample from a Primarch could bring him the answers he needed. Without the armies of the Third Legion, attacking Lupercalia and taking Horus' body was a pipe dream, and it would take him years to create or gather another army …

… unless … Perhaps there was a way. It would take a long time, time that Bile feared was running out for him – already he felt the pains of the brief battle appear in his body. But that might be his only chance to do what he knew must be done, for the sake of all Mankind.


	34. The Savior and the Monster

After the Heresy, the Rubric, and the war with the Plague God, many of Sortiarus' defenders thought that nothing could surprise them anymore. Yet when the _Pulchritudinous_ appeared at the edge of the system and the image of Fabius Bile appeared on the hololithic displays of the _Gift of Thot_ , even the most hardened Astartes veteran was taken aback. Bile had become a dreadful legend among the Traitor Legions – his feats of genetic manipulation during the rebellion, the atrocities he had committed on Terra, and his single-handed keeping of the Third Legion from falling apart entirely were the stuff of legend. To have him suddenly appear in the heart of the Fifteenth Legion's dominion was both surprising and disturbing, but his message was even more so.

' _Ahzek Ahriman,'_ declared the Chief Apothecary. _'It has been a long time. I wish to speak with you on the subject of an alliance between us. The Third Legion is your enemy now – Fulgrim is gathering its warriors for an attack on your Legion's domain, along with other slaves of the Dark Prince. But I do not share their insane devotion to that Warp-born spawn of the Eldar, and have no quarrel against you and yours – quite the opposite in fact. I have heard of what you have accomplished, and I believe my help would benefit you, just as yours would benefit me.'_

With Magnus still away on his visit to Perturabo – from Ahriman's perspective, it had been more than three months since his Primarch's departure – the Arch-Sorcerer was in command of Sortiarus and all its forces. From his Silver Tower, he had directed the purge of the last Nurglite holdouts on the planet, as well as the reconstruction efforts. All agreed he had done a good job of it – the ruined cities had been rebuilt in record time thanks to sorcery, and newly arrived mortal followers had replaced those slaughtered during the Siege. There had been difficulties, of course. Without the war to distract them, some of the Legion's allied daemons had begun to plot again, requiring Ahriman to step in and prevent their pawns from starting a pitched battle in the middle of a city. A group of scholars had delved too deeply into lore they weren't ready for yet, and Ahriman had sent no less than three Exalted Sorcerers to put down the mindless, gibbering monsters they had become as a result. Still, the arrival of Fabius Bile was the first true crisis the Arch-Sorcerer had faced since Argel Tal had left aboard a Seventeenth Legion ship, bound for Sicarius and a long-overdue discussion with Erebus and the rest of the Dark Council.

'You cannot be considering this,' said Sanakht from behind Ahriman. 'I told you when we were searching for help in the war against the Plague God : Bile is a monster. His perversion is an abomination against everything we stand for !'

'His help might allow us to free those of our brothers who are still trapped in the Rubric,' pointed out Khayon. 'And if his warning is true – and why would he lie ? - then we might need his help anyway. He knows more about the Third Legion and its warriors than anyone else.'

'Because he is the one who turned them into monsters themselves !' replied the swordsman.

The Arch-Sorcerer stood on an open balcony, looking down at the thriving capital of Sortiarus. Behind him, his two brothers – those who had been with him when Bile's message had arrived, relayed from orbit directly into Ahriman's tower – continued to argue. Part of Ahriman listened to their arguments – the two of them were far too proud to descend to shouting – while the greater part of his mind pondered this new development. That the Dark Prince was gathering its forces to attack Sortiarus was hardly surprising, though Ahriman would have expected such a brazen move from the Lord of Skulls rather than the Youngest God. That Fulgrim led such an onslaught … that was more worrying. The Daemon Primarch of the Emperor's Children was a terrible foe, wholly consumed by his arrogance and inhuman desires. The Necroteuch might provide insight in how to defeat him as Ahriman had banished Mortarion, but the prospect of calling upon the full power of all his fragments again was not one Ahriman contemplated with any joy.

Yet the most surprising thing was that Bile would come to warn the Fifteenth Legion, and go as far as to offer an alliance. Something had definitely happened, something momentous, and Ahriman wanted to know what that was. He turned, and his brothers went silent, awaiting his decision.

'I will meet with Bile,' the Arch-Sorcerer decreed. As he spoke, his mind reached out, transmitting his command to the warriors guarding the orbit : 'Send the message : he can come with an escort of three, no less, and his transport will land on my tower and nowhere else, or it will be shot.'

He did not truly believe that such precautions were necessary – Bile would need to be stupid to try anything on Sortiarus – but that was needed to pacify Sanakht. Besides, there had been many lords who had thought themselves unreachable, only to fall to an apparently harmless visitor – and Bile was anything but harmless. Ahriman was not foolish enough to think himself immune to the twin weaknesses of pride and hubris, but he wasn't going to make _that_ mistake.

The two great Lords of the Eye met in a domed chamber near the top of Ahriman's Silver Tower, beneath the gaze of ancient Prosperine scholars painted on the ceiling and standing upon a detailled mosaic that displayed the screeching faces of the damned burning in eternal flames. No mortal hand had fashioned either of the striking artworks – they had appeared by themselves during the last time the Silver Tower had reshaped itself. What this said of Ahriman's subconscious was something the Arch-Sorcerer had little desire to investigate, even though he couldn't help part of him from doing precisely that even as Fabius Bile entered the room with his allotted escort.

The Clonelord had brought a single other Astartes with him, another Apothecary wearing the colors of the Third Legion beneath a tabard that had once been white but was now drenched in blood and other, less identifiable liquids. An ornate sword of breathtaking workmanship hung at the Marine's belt, and Ahriman barely suppressed his shock as he recognized its origin – one of the famed Blades of Corithius, a Terran artisan who had only created a handful of them during the course of his entire, juvenat-prolonged carrer. Like Bile's, the Apothecary's head was bare, revealing the noble features that had been typical of Fulgrim's Legion before their downfall. By contrast, Ahriman, Khayon and Sanakht all wore their helm, their faces concealed from sight.

'This is Oleander Koh,' said Bile, inclining his head in the direction of his gene-brother. 'One of my brightest pupils. And these,' he continued, gesturing toward the other two members of his escort, 'are Delicea and Kelarus, two of my beloved children. Say hello to our generous host, my dears.'

The "children" of Bile bowed toward the three Exalted Sorcerers and the infernal she-wolf at Khayon's side, the motion more fluid and graceful than Ahriman would have believed any of Bile's twisted homunculae to be capable of. They were humanoid, one female and one male, and looking upon them with mortal eyes would not reveal any deviation from Mankind's original genetic template. But their auras were nightmarish flows of violent images and lightning-quick thinking as they both considered means to kill all those around them and discarded them. Ahriman could also hear the beatings of their hearts – Delicea, the female one, had three different ones, and Kelarus' beat about four times too quickly for a normal human in what was admittedly a rather stressful situation. They both wore suits of customized armor painted in bright colors and carried an impressive array of weapons, ranging from mundane knives to experimental technology from the greatest minds of the Dark Mechanicum who had somehow ended up working for the Third Legion. Their heads were bald and covered in scars leftover from the many surgeries their creator had performed upon them in his quest for the perfect manifestation of Humanity's potential.

'Now,' said the Clonelord with a smile that revealed yellow teeth. 'Let us talk.'

* * *

AN : The second volume of the _Black Legion_ is out ! Whoooho ! Let's go to the Black Library page and purchase the audiobook ! I can't wait to ... Wait, what do you mean I can't download it until the 12th ? Cuuuurses !

Ah, well. I will have to wait, I suppose. But in the meantime, here is the next part of the Fifteenth Ascendant. A short chapter, mostly setting things up for what comes next and allowing me to return to this fic after focusing on the Roboutian Heresy and Warband of the Forsaken Sons for quite some time.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Tell me what you thought about it, and what you are hoping for in the future !


	35. Covenant of the Accursed

'Yes,' replied Ahriman, his voice calm and level. 'Let us begin with why I shouldn't kill you where you stand and have our fleet blast the void city of horrors you call a ship to atoms.'

The two creatures growled, but Bile and Oleander remained impassible – the shadow of a smile even passed on the latter's face. The grin of the Clonelord only grew larger, and Ahriman sensed his two brothers tense a step behind him, their minds focusing on the mental paths that would unleash a storm of sorcerous energies that would utterly annihilate their visitors in the blink of an eye. No matter how powerful a warrior Bile's apprentice was, no matter how augmented the two mortals at his side might be, the Exalted Sorcerers could destroy them in milliseconds. Bile himself would be a more difficult proposition – the infernal rod at his belt radiated the power of the Daemon Prince trapped within, and it would shield him from the less subtle forms of the Art. Still, Ahriman was certain he could overcome this defense, certain Bile knew that too – yet still the Clonelord grinned.

'Because I am the only one who can help you bring back those brothers you have lost, whose souls are trapped within your grand spell, denied even the release of oblivion,' declared Bile with supreme confidence. 'There are none other, in the Eye and beyond, who know as much about Legionaries' genetics than I, none who have cracked the secrets of the Emperor's genetic mastery as I have. Only I can recreate their lost bodies for you to pull their souls into. You have shown to the entire Eye how far you are willing to go to save your brothers, Ahriman. I think you will find my demands a reasonable price for the return of even a few of your lost kindred.'

'And what would these demands be ?' said Ahriman, nearly seething with rage at Bile's casual holding of his dead brothers hostage. 'How many of our mortal servants should be offer to your experiments in return for your aid in recreating our brothers' mortal vessels ?'

'Servants ?' scoffed Bile. 'I have brought plenty of those aboard my ship, and I could have had plenty more if I had joined Fulgrim's crusade or gone my own way and conquered any of the Eye's many worlds for myself. I have come here for the knowledge of the Thousand Sons, and for a place where I can continue my research without being impaired by the decrees of a mad Primarch. But I have also come because I believe that what is happening here is not just another turn of the Great Game of Chaos. I have come because I think there is the potential for something more.'

The Clonelord stepped forward, until he was less than a meter from Ahriman. There was a light his eyes now, a mad fever that seemed to shine through his skull and into his aura. The Arch-Sorcerer felt the winged daemons that flocked around the Silver Tower react with cackling laughter and horrified screeches. This light, Ahriman realized, was how his own mind interpreted the madness and vision of the insane gene-wright before him, a bright flame of twisted inspiration that would, if left unchecked, spread to consume the whole of Mankind and leave something else, something _new_ , writhing in the ashes of Humanity's funeral pyre. Yet if that flame could be contained …

'You believe you can save Mankind through knowledge, and guide it to transcendance by helping it down the path of psychic apotheosis. A noble vision, but one I cannot share. I have seen just how quickly the façade of civilization can be stripped down from the noblest of souls – I have fallen into that abyss myself, and left much of the man I was behind as I struggled out of the depths of depravity to which I had sunk. For all the distrust you have toward me, we both want the same thing, Ahriman : to save Mankind from the doom that lurks in its future. Only our methods differ.'

'And are we to believe that you truly left your evil ways behind ?' mocked Sanakht. 'We have heard from your brothers who came to serve us about your deeds since the Siege of Terra. Many of the Third Legion warbands who joined us did so mostly out of disgust for your atrocities you led your Legion to after Skalathrax ! They told us everything about the harvesting pits of Arkalash, and the genetic plagues you unleashed on Jzerebiet. How many lives have ended in utter agony because of your deeds since you "rose from the depths ?"'

The gaze Bile directed toward the swordsman was almost withering for all the contempt it held.

'Millions ? Billions ? What does it matter, compared to the fate of Mankind ? Yes, I did all these things you heard about – and many more no other living soul know of. I led a Legion of the Lost and the Damned, all their morality consumed by the poisons I had helped force down their throats. How else do you think I could have kept them under my control unless I proved them all that I was far more dangerous than even they ? And do not try to play righteous here, son of Magnus. Your brother here,' Bile pointed toward Ahriman with an accusatory finger, but his renewed grin took all the aggression out of the gesture, though not the discomfort it brought, 'is responsible for far more destruction that I. Oh yes, Ahriman. I know about the images of the Arch-Sorcerer, spread across the galaxy, bringing doom to entire worlds all so that the Fifteenth Legion can warm itself on their funeral pyres. And that is as it should be, as it _must_ be. We both know that sacrifices must be made by those who would wrest destiny from the hands of mad gods and mortal fools alike.'

Despite all his self-control, Ahriman's left hand curled into a fist. He did not like being reminded of the deeds of his fragmented mind. Even if his Legion had benefited from them – even if they had saved the lives of many of his brothers during the siege, delivering reinforcements to the most desperate situations – the actions of these splinters of his psyche unnerved him greatly. They were unbound by any moral code, unrestrained in their power – diminished as it might be compared to that wielded by the Arch-Sorcerer himself. Bile was right – worlds had burned to bring much-needed resources to the Fifteenth Legion. But the worst of it was, now that Sortiarus was secure, the "tributes" from the rest of the galaxy hadn't ended. The interval between them varied, but sooner or later a new one would arrive. Ahriman knew that some of his brothers were attempting to hide the truth from him, and while he appreciated their concern for his mental well-being, their efforts were futile. As long as he remained on the Planet of the Sorcerers, he could feel every group of pilgrims sent through the Warp by one of his fragments, every surviving warband from a dead world that reached the shores of the Fifteenth Legion's domain. Through it all, the worst part was that, had he had the power to stop it, he wasn't certain he would have done so. The Legion needed all the assets it could get, and the future they fought to forge was one worth any sacrifice.

'You want something else,' he said out loud. 'Idealism is the motivation of none within the Eye – at least, not on its own. There is something else, something you can only achieve by allying with us. The lore we possess is part of it, yes – but it isn't all. Knowledge of the Art is only of limited use to you, Chief Apothecary, and you could have found _that_ elsewhere in the Eye.'

'Yes,' admitted Bile without hesitation. 'A chance to work on your Rubric is one of the things I stand to gain from this alliance, for a start. You managed to keep your brothers safe from the greater changes wrought on their flesh by the Warp, and such knowledge would be very useful to my work. More than that, though, I need the strength of a Legion on my side if I am to accomplish the next step toward my goal. And of all the Nine Legions, yours is the one offering the greatest chance of success. Believe me, Ahriman, when Eidolon came barging into my private laboratory to tell me of Fulgrim's newest foolishness, I considered my options _very_ carefully. That next step isn't important right now, not with Fulgrim coming. What is your answer, Arch-Sorcerer of the Thousand Sons ?'

Ahriman did not need his Corvidae training to perceive the weight of his decision. He stood at a crossroad, one that would have consequences for his entire Legion. But in the end, what choice did he have ? He would not let his brothers' souls trapped within the Rubric when he could save them.

'Very well. You and I shall be allies, Fabius Bile. First, tell me what you know of Fulgrim's plan.'

* * *

AN : well, it has been a while, hasn't it ? But I am back to this story for a while.

My portrayal of Bile is based on the _Fabius Bile : Primogenitor_ novel, which is partly told from Bile's own POV. It reveals much about his motivations, and while I have taken some liberties here in my interpretations of things, I am reasonably certain that they remain consistent with John Reynold's own vision of the character.  
What makes Bile a truly terrifying villain isn't the horde of malformed abominations he leaves in his wake, though that is dreadful in its own right. No, what truly sets him apart is that, for all his depravity, for all the horrors he has committed, he is still driven by a singular vision : to save Mankind by remaking it, that it may survive in an hostile galaxy. And he is _completely_ unfettered by morality or ethics in this pursuit. Everything he does isn't done for the sake of cruelty or petty vengeance against the Golden Throne - he does it because he truly thinks it is the right thing to do, the only possible course of action. He believes himself to be the only sane man in a galaxy gone mad, and that belief justifies his every deed in his own mind.

We will explore that more in details in the Times of Ending for the Roboutian Heresy, of that I am sure (and looking forward to). But for now, we have seen enough of the Clonelord. The next chapter of this story will be much longer, and it will take us to Sicarius, homeworld of the Word Bearers. There is an old friend of us who is about to arrive there, and I think a lot of you have been looking forward to what will happen then.

Don't forget to tell me what you thought of this part (we will have more action in the next one, I promise), and what you are hoping for the story's future. I have set things in motion now - Fulgrim's attack, Perturabo and Magnus discussing Tallarn and what lies buried there ... The story has gone beyond a mere "what-if" and has truly grown into its own beast, hasn't it ? But I will continue, be assured of that. How it will all end ... I have no idea.

Oh, and _Black Legion_ is finally out. I downloaded the whole audiobook, have listened to the first chapter ... And I _love_ it so far.

Zahariel out.


	36. Retribution in the Darkness

AN : well, you have all been waiting for it, so here it is. Have fun !

* * *

'You have failed the Dark Council,' said the figure leading the circle of armored lord gathered to render judgement upon their wayward brother. 'You have failed the Word of Lorgar, and for that, the penalty is death. Your soul shall burn within the halls of the Gods forevermore, not as an exalted servant, but as another sinner who failed to accomplish what the Gods intended for you.'

The accused warrior remained on his knees before the Dark Council, not resisting his fate in the last. He had been stripped of his armor, and the great wings that had once marked him as one of the Pantheon's champions had been reduced to tattered rags hanging over broken bones, while the sacred texts tattooed on his skin were now covered by scars and burns. When he had first been brought before the Council, stripped of his rank and power, he had denied the charges laid against him and shouted insults at those who thought to condemn him. He had denied them any right to judge him, and sworn vengeance against them. But after nine weeks of interrogation in the Council's torture chambers, he had been made to see the truth of his transgressions, and awaited his rightful punishment with all the obedient stoicism that he had failed to display before. A shame that so many souls could not accept their proper place until it was made obvious to them through agony.

The blade of the executioner came down, and the accused's lifeblood spilled on the consecrated stones of the judgement hall, the offering bringing some measure of honor to the dead warrior even as his soul was claimed by the Octet. The members of the Dark Council departed the chamber, one by one, until only one remained, standing above the quickly-vanishing blood pool. The executioner – a warrior of the Seventeenth Legion who had had his tongue and eyes removed, and his eardrums pierced so that he could only hear the voices of the Gods and the commands of the Dark Council – had already dragged the body away, to be disposed of by the slaves of the citadel. Soon no trace of the condemned's existence would remain on Sicarius, as it should be.

Alone, Erebus, Dark Apostle of the Word Bearers, smiled under his hood. That one could have been a threat in time. In the last months, he had been talking to a lot of the other Corypheus – these warlords who led the hosts of the Seventeenth Legion under the command of the Dark Apostles. Though he had been subtle in voicing his sedition, there had been no hiding the fact that he resented the Dark Council's control of the Legion, thinking it an usurpation of the Primarch's own right to command. The fact that he was right – Lorgar had not appointed the Council, he had simply gone into his temple and not come out – had been all the more reason to quickly suppress him. Now even his name would be struck from the Legion's archives. Such circumstances were one of the only occasions where Erebus and Kor Phaeron were of the same mind – for all that they played against one another for ultimate leadership of the Legion, neither could allow the Dark Council to weaken.

Erebus left the execution chamber, his mind already turning to his next move in the game opposing him to the Black Cardinal for dominion over the Seventeenth. The rise of the Thousand Sons continued, and with Lorgar's command that the Word Bearers do not pick a side, the Dark Council could not act – yet more and more warbands were slipping from their bonds, joining with Magnus or one of his rivals, drawn to the promise of battle. There _had_ to be a way the sudden, seemingly impossible rebirth of the broken Thousand Sons could be turned to his advantage. He was the Hand of the Gods, their instrument in the galaxy – he had to find what they desired of him in that matter.

'My lord,' came the voice of one of the citadel's guardians. 'We have a report from our orbital arrays. The _Unbridled Design_ just entered the system. What is your will ?'

The Dark Apostle froze in place. Like all Astartes, he had an eidetic memory, and as one of the Legion's leaders he had access to all fleet records. The _Unbridled Design_ was a strike cruiser belonging to one of the warbands who had joined the Thousand Sons. Despite the best efforts of the Dark Council, not every warband of the Seventeenth Legion was led by a Dark Apostle loyal to one of the Council's members – some were not led by Dark Apostles at all, splinters from the whole who acted out of their warlords' own desires. Most of the sons of Lorgar who had journeyed to Sortiarus and pledged their alliances to the Fifteenth Legion belonged to such groups – most, but not all. To Erebus' great fury, a few Dark Apostles had brought their Chapters to kneel before the Crimson King, seeing his Legion's ascendancy as the clearest sign of the Pantheon's favour. In Erebus' mind, these were far viler than those who had joined the Thousand Sons because they lacked the hand of a Dark Apostle to provide them direction. The _Unbridled Design_ had not been among these wretched betrayers, which was why Erebus did not give the order to blast the vessel to bits before it reached orbit and instead demanded to be kept informed of its actions.

Perhaps the ship carried a message from the Fifteenth Legion, or perhaps the warriors aboard had seen the error of their ways and come back to the fold. If it was the latter, there would be penances to pay, of course, and the leaders would be ritually executed to atone for the sin of allowing their brothers to turn from the Word Bearers. But if it was the former … the last time the Thousand Sons had come to Sicarius to talk, it had not gone well for Erebus and the Dark Council. The two thought-commands of Lorgar – one for Ahriman to come speak to him, another that the Legion remain uninvolved in the ongoing conflict opposing the Thousand Sons to those who would curtail their ascension – had shaken their authority over the Legion. In a single strike, Lorgar had weakened the rhetoric the Dark Councilors had employed to keep their position as lords of the Word Bearers in the absence of the Urizen. If the Primarch had left his meditations once to intervene in the affairs of the Eye, then he could do so again, and that possibility brought relief and joy to the rank and file just as much as it brought dread to those who enjoyed rulership in Lorgar's absence.

If it was a message, that the ship was a Word Bearer vessel likely meant that no son of Magnus was on board – otherwise they would have come in their own ships, or brought one of the Silver Towers the Warp was whispering about these days. Perhaps he could use this, turn some of the Word Bearers to his service and use them as spies once they returned to Sortiarus … He needed intel. He needed to know why they had come ! Information was the most precious resource of the secret wars he waged to increase his power base and do the will of the Gods. But the Thousand Sons had rooted out all of his agents who had attempted to reach Sortiarus, and their influence in the Empyrean was such that the daemons Erebus summoned for answers had little to tell him. Still, he should have heard about the _Unbridled Design_ before it arrived. Something had kept the ship hidden from his sight, and he wondered what that might be – and what it might portend.

To occupy his time, Erebus poured over everything he knew of the current happenings in the Eye of Terror, trying to divine the purpose behind this visit. The Thousand Sons had suffered setbacks in the Rings of Artek-Ker, where the hosts of the War God laid siege to the forges of Kelbor-Hal – how Ahriman had managed to found the old Fabricator-General was another thing that vexed Erebus to no end. The disciples of Slaanesh were also on the move, Fulgrim himself having abandoned his wanderings at the command of the Dark Prince to gather the Emperor's Children back together after Skalathrax's catastrophe. Erebus had pieced together that particular revelation from the ramblings of three dozens seers, who had been driven mad by visions of the White Naga. It had been the work of weeks to interpret their madness, and in the end they had all had to be put down – a testament to the power that laid behind every action taken by a Daemon Primarch. Was this a call for help against the armies of the Youngest God ? Surely not. The Thousand Sons had endured the assault of the Plague God, and they already knew that the Word Bearers would not involve themselves.

It took a few days for the _Unbridled Design_ to reach Sicarius' orbit from the system's edge, the ship's engines burning at low capacity while those aboard it repaired the damage it had sustained during its journey. Its hull bore immense claw marks, as if left by a leviathan of titanic scale, and many other scars of battle that could only have been earned fighting the Neverborn. Looking at the pict-captures of the vessel, Erebus wondered if this was the result of earning the Gods' displeasure by turning to the Fifteenth Legion's service. Or perhaps it had been caused by the Thousand Sons themselves, using their sorcery to send hosts of daemons against the ship after it turned from them.

For three days, Erebus remained within his quarters, sending orders to his servants and preparing in case the coming of the _Unbridled Design_ heralded a war against the Fifteenth Legion. All the while, he also kept an eye on the actions of the other members of the Dark Council, especially Kor Phaeron. They had all learned of the strike cruiser's arrival within hours of its emergence from the Warp, and they too were preparing for whatever news it might brought. Vox-communications with the _Unbridled Design_ had been scarce – it had sent a single message claiming to have news to share with the Dark Council, and had been silent ever since. When the strike cruiser reached orbit at last and a single Thunderhawk descended toward the Dark Council's fortress, seven of its members awaited those carried by the gunship – all of those present on Sicarius at the time. Even Kor Phaeron had left his studies of the Pantheon to come to the gathering.

 _We have let the Thousand Sons grow far too important to our internal affairs,_ thought Erebus bitterly as he took in the gathered lords. _This must change._ We _are the favoured sons of the Gods, not these upstart sorcerers who had to be deceived into becoming the Architect of Fate's pawns._

The Council had gathered in one of the many chambers set to that purpose in the fortress. Each Councilor stood high above a center circle, where the one being summoned would stand. The walls, floor and ceiling were covered with sacred images and symbols of the Primordial Truth. There were no empty seats – in this room and all others, their number was always equal to that of Dark Councilors in attendance. Like most construction within the Eye of Terror, the fortress itself was made as much of the Warp as it was of solid stone. Every stone had been consecrated with the blood of human sacrifices and blessed by the Legion's Dark Apostles, and they shifted in accord to the will of the lords of the keep. The circle of the Dark Councilors was _always_ complete – it must be.

The massive double doors leading into the chamber opened slowly, grinding on their hinges. Any who presented themselves to the Dark Council had to force their way in, pushing the obstacle away before they could supplicate themselves before the lords of the Seventeenth Legion. Such was the weight of the gate that it often took several minutes for it to open, even when pushed by the strength of an Astartes wearing power armor. Yet this time, the gate opened in less than half a minute, and as the shape of the one who stood on the other side was revealed, it became clear why.

A Daemon Prince entered the meeting chamber, great wings batting from his back. Cracked remains of arterial red Astartes war-plate marked the infernal princeling as having belonged to the Seventeenth Legion when he had been mortal. A pair of horns crowned a bestial, canine-shaped head that had fused with a Mark II helmet, behind which a pair of eyes blazed with eternal hatreds and desires. How the creature had come to Sicarius, Erebus didn't know – at more than six meters in height, it was far too huge to have travelled through the Thunderhawk that was supposed to have brought the envoys from the _Unbridled Design._ But the laws of physics, the rule of Euclidean dimensions, meant nothing to those the Dark Gods had elevated to immortality.

Behind the Daemon Prince, a line of Word Bearers took position, blocking further access to the room with bolters in hand. This was a clear violation of the command that whoever came to the Dark Council did so alone, but the seven lords of the Legion were too busy staring at the ascended warrior to protest. These were the priest-kings of the Word Bearers, who had risen through sheer force of will to take command of the Legion after Lorgar had abandoned his sons to plunge himself in the Great Game of Chaos. Each of them – even Kor Phaeron, who Erebus despised – was a sorcerer of immense skill, who had bound countless Neverborn into servitude and laid waste to entire worlds for the glory of the Dark Gods. The Word of Lorgar was written on their skin, carved in their flesh with ritual blades. They were living monuments to the Gods' power and glory, and none stood above them in the Legion's hierarchy. And yet, as the Daemon Prince's burning eyes looked upon each of them in turn, none could completely hide the unease they felt at the scrutiny.

Erebus had stood before Daemon Princes before, including some who had once been Word Bearers. Each time, his title as Dark Apostle and Hand of the Gods had allowed him to hold his ground, and even force them to do his will despite still being a mortal. As powerful as they might be, as much as he himself might desire that power for himself, Erebus knew that the Gods truly valued their mortal servants above their immortal ones, for the latter were bound by the same rules as the rest of their Neverborn children. During the rebellion, he had summoned and bargained with Doombreed himself, first and greatest of Khorne's ascended sons. It had been an experience as traumatic as it had been enlightening, for all that the endeavour had ultimately failed to bring Sanguinius to the service of the Blood God. But this was different.

The winged creature that stood within the circle, tall enough to stare the Councilors in the eye despite their elevation, radiated raw power and threat in a way Erebus had only encountered in one occasion before. The memory of the pain he had felt when Horus had flayed his face with his Talon suddenly came to the forefront of his mind, and for a split second he revived the agony he had felt in that moment. Along with that recollection came that of each and every one of his failures – the dread he had felt when the Davinite priestess had cut his throat, the stupor as Lorgar denied his demand for reinforcements to the Battle of Calth and called him a failure, the shock that had rocked his soul when Khârn had beaten him in the _Conqueror_ , had cut off his hand and had been about to kill him. The sight of the Daemon Prince brought back every moment of doubt, of weakness, of _failure_ , and Erebus knew that the creature was fully aware of it – and was enjoying the effect.

The power of the Daemon Prince was undeniable, for all that it was still much weaker than the Daemon Primarchs Erebus had encountered. There was something maddeningly familiar about the Neverborn's appearance and aura, yet the Dark Apostle could not recognize it, even as his every instinct screamed at him to run, to flee from the creature's presence. He had thought he knew of every son of Lorgar who had shed his mortality and earned the Gods' greatest reward, and monitored the progression of those whose fate seemed to advance toward that ultimate goal, but the winged daemon was entirely unknown to him. He had never heard of a Word Bearer displaying such changes to his flesh as symbols of the Gods' favour … Wait. Yes, he had. But it couldn't be …

And then, the daemon spoke, his voice filled with dark amusement, his infernal gaze fixed upon the Dark Apostle, and the wretched, tattered thing that was Erebus' soul knew fear once more.

' **Hello, Erebus. It has been a long time.'**

'Who are you ?' Erebus managed to ask, his mind reeling as it finally caught up with what his subconscious had been screaming at him from the moment the Daemon Prince had entered the chamber. But that was impossible. He had read the paths of the future, divined the Gods' plan and his place in it. He was the Hand of the Gods, the agent of their will. They wouldn't lie to him …

The Daemon Prince laughed, and the sound echoed through the entire fortress and beyond. In the deepest tunnels, hundreds of kilometer underground, the tribes of mutants that dwell in that lightless realm heard it. They were driven mad by its power, and turned upon one another, entire clans butchering themselves in a frenzy of self-loathing violence. In the cathedrals, Chaos preachers were seized by terrible visions of destruction and ruin, their minds shattered by a glimpse of the true nature of the Gods they served. And in the vast fields where the Word Bearers armies gathered, Legionaries raised their heads toward the Dark Council's fortress, recognizing the infernal voice in their souls, even if their minds hadn't yet, and a dreadful anticipation descended upon them.

' **Do you not recognize me,** ** _master_** **?'** replied the Daemon mockingly. **'Do you not recognize your student, the one you stabbed in the back while our father was fighting the Avenging Son and orchestrating the rise of the Red Angel ? Yes, Erebus … It is I, Argel Tal. I am really here.'**

'Impossible,' breathed Erebus. 'I killed him. He fell in disgrace, having failed the Gods with his weakness and his foolish attachment to that mortal priestess ! I held the blade in my hand as I watched him die, under the shadows of great wings as was foretold. I watched the light fade from Argel Tal's eyes under that of Nuceria's setting sun ! This is a trick. You _cannot_ be him !'

' **And yet … Here I am,'** the Daemon Prince _purred_ , radiating malevolent contentment, **'reborn from the Warp's fire, reforged as the weapon of the Gods in their eternal war against reality. You thought you were doing the will of the Gods, and you were** ** _right_** **… But you did not realize that you did not know the** ** _truth_** **of their will, even as you acted as their dutiful slave.'**

The Daemon Prince – Argel Tal – stepped closer to Erebus, the stones under his clawed feet cracking under his weight, until the Dark Apostle could smell his burning breath. It smelt of ashen dreams and shattered hopes, of loyalties betrayed and broken promises. Most of all, though, it smelt of deaths to come, of the hatred Argel Tal held for Erebus above all others beneath the Gods. It was that hatred, more than anything else, that convinced Erebus that yes, this was really Argel Tal. Erebus' former disciple still lived, elevated by the Dark Gods to the ranks of their immortal champions while the Dark Apostle had been left mortal.

' **I have lingered in the depths of the Empyrean for a long time,'** continued the Daemon Prince, **'forced to watch as you and the rest of your kind bent and twisted the Legion to your selfish designs. I have watched everything I fought for be ground to dust or perverted into a twisted image of itself … But no more. Now, I am freed from the shackles set upon me by the Gods. The sons of Magnus have slackened my chains and restored my free will … for now. In time, I may fall back fully under the Gods' control, bound to their domination once more. But before that, I will make sure to free the Seventeenth Legion from your machinations and schemes. I will have my revenge for all that you did to me, Erebus !'**

Erebus, first Dark Apostle of the Word Bearers, who had stared into the core of the Primordial Truth and orchestrated the treachery of Horus Lupercal, turned and fled. Leaving the Council behind, he ran for his life through the corridors of the Council's fortress. None of the other Councilors moved to help or hinder him. In the chamber, Argel Tal's voice boomed, his words carried across the aether itself so that every soul on Sicarius, living or dead, heard them :

' **Run all you want, Erebus ! You cannot escape from me !'**

As he ran, Erebus saw the corridor distorts, becoming far higher than it had been before as the power contained within the stones reacted to Argel Tal's pursuit and adapted to let the Daemon Prince pass. Argel Tal was far faster than he was – he would catch up in seconds. That only left Erebus one option, and he took it rather than face death at the hands of his former pupil.

Erebus' gift for sorcery was great even by the standards of the Eye, but it did not take its root in the psychic ability most Sorcerers had possessed before turning to Chaos. No, his power wasn't the result of some random genetic mutation allowing him a broader perception of the universe. He had fought for his mastery over the powers of the Warp, studied the records left behind by a thousand generations of scholars of the forbidden and disciples of the true faith in its myriad incarnations. He had learned the old words of Enuncia, that someone strong enough could use to reshape reality itself to his will. He had mastered rituals that had taken entire civilizations millennia to develop and had ultimately brought their end as the Gods destroyed them for their sins against the Pantheon. He had bound daemons to his will and gleaned forgotten truths from the depths of the Sea of Souls. In one occasion, he had even brought a mortal woman back to life, piecing her torn soul together.

Most of his sorcerous abilities required long, careful preparations and rituals. Less practical in battle than the immediate rush of power possessed by psykers, but far more versatile and powerful, in the right hands. Yet there were still a few tricks he could use on a moment's notice. And as Argel Tal closed in on him, the infernal heat of his presence causing sweat to drip down Erebus' forehead, the Dark Apostle drew his anathema dagger and thrust it before him, cutting the very fabric of space and plunging through the opening he had created. The angle and speed of the cut were all of paramount importance – a variation by a fragment of a degree and he would have ended up in a wall, or within the burning core of a distant star. But he had timed the cut to perfection, and emerged on one of the fortress' landing platforms, with the burning skies of the Sicarius above him. It was raining – the homeworld of the Word Bearers was being drenched in the blood of every man, woman and child who had ever been killed in the name of divinities real or imagined. Such an event was usually considered a good omen, and Erebus took it as sign that he would survive.

A ripping sound coming from behind him quickly disabused him of that notion. He turned, and his eyes widened as a pair of monstrous claws reached through the two-dimensional cut his passage had left and pulled the extremities apart. Before Erebus could react with anything beyond stupor, Argel Tal emerged from the breach and punched Erebus in the chest with enough strength to send him flying across the landing platform, crashing against the side of a Thunderhawk. Spots of blackness crept in his vision as he struggled to remain awake, feeling the damage to several of his organs.

As Argel Tal marched toward him, Erebus reached for his crozius, more out of instinct than because of any belief that he could somehow defeat the Daemon Prince in battle. He had always known Argel Tal to be a better warrior than him, even before he had received the blessing of sharing his flesh with one of the Secondborn and had become the Crimson Lord. But the instincts of a lifetime of war and conditioning could not be so easily discarded.

Argel Tal swept the crozius aside with contemptuous brush of his claws that broke Erebus' right arm and sent the weapon tumbling over the edge of the platform, toward the ground kilometers below. Then, with lightning speed, he brought down his right hand. It caught Erebus and forced him on his back, the Daemon Prince towering above him, a talon on each side of his throat. He had not gone to the gathering wearing his helmet, and the bloody rain fell on his face, the vitae filled with the terror of the dead it had belonged to. Images flashed in Erebus' mind as his omophagea processed the blood – cities aflame at the hands of religious madmen for the heresies of their rulers, entire families tortured and executed for perceived slights against gods they had never heard of. None of these visions disturbed him – he had seen and committed far worse. But the visage of Argel Tal leering above him did what the visions of fanatical holocaust did not. The helmet that covered most of the Daemon Prince's face robbed him of much of his capacity for expressing emotions, but the sight of it up close still sent fresh terror down Erebus' spine.

' **I didn't think I would enjoy this so much,'** growled Argel Tal as he pushed Erebus further down, ceramite and rockcrete cracking under the pressure of his claws. **'After all, killing you won't undo anything you have done to me. And yet … This is** ** _really_** **satisfying.'**

'You will not kill me,' Erebus managed to force the words out, fighting the paralysing dread that threatened to leave him entirely defenseless against his would-be killer. 'This is not my fate.'

Before the Daemon Prince could reply, Erebus did something he knew would cost him greatly : he triggered one of the sorcerous fail-safes he had created years ago, as an ultimate recourse in case Kor Phaeron somehow managed to completely oust him from his position and he needed to escape Sicarius and build his power base elsewhere. Never he had thought that he would have to use it in such circumstances, but there was no choice. Argel Tal meant to kill him, and Erebus had long since learned that the Gods would not miraculously intervene on his behalf – if he needed such help, then he was unworthy of their favour, and would be discarded like he had thought Argel Tal had been.

The Dark Apostle spat a few syllables, feeling his teeth explode in his mouth as the unnatural sounds passed between them. Reality shattered around him in a kaleidoscope of shards, some showing glimpses of Sicarius, others of distant worlds, others of nothing at all. He fell through that maelstrom of broken space and time, hearing the sound of Argel Tal's furious roar at his escape over even the scream of reality. Then he lost all sensations beyond the terrible agony wrecking his body as the cosmic energies surrounding him pushed and pull at every atom of his flesh. It took all of Erebus' focus to prevent himself from simply dissolving away, his essence scattered to the corners of time and space. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, his trip across dimensions ended.

With a flash of light and the screams of alarms, Erebus materialized on the bridge of the _Destiny's Hand_ , the battle-barge that served as his personal flagship. His armor was a ruined, smoking wreck, his face a mess of bruises, burst blood vessels and badly burnt skin, and one of his eyes had melted inside its socket, while every single nerve of his body sent pain to his brain – but he lived, and he had managed to get the destination of his unconventional teleportation right. That was enough, though it was surprisingly difficult to convince himself of that given his statute at the moment.

'All engines at full power !' he croaked to the captain, a mortal male who was fused to his command throne with cybernetics and mutated flesh. 'Get us out of the system, _now_!'

'W-where to, lord ?' asked the captain, terrified at his lord's aspect. 'Where do you want us to go ?'

Erebus took a few seconds to answer, forcing his mind to work through the agony wrecking his entire body. Right now, he wanted nothing more than crawl to his cell aboard the vessel and call upon the Octet's power to repair his broken flesh, but he had to focus just a little longer. He thought of the Dark Apostles who had sworn their allegiances to him – and quickly discarded the idea of calling upon them for help. Fleeing from Argel Tal would have damaged his credibility greatly among the Word Bearers. For the time being, he couldn't rely on anyone but those who had everything to lose should he die – namely, the Legionaries already aboard the ship. He couldn't afford to recover the rest of his servants on Sicarius – he needed to run. How the Dark Council would react to Argel Tal's actions was unknown – how the _Legion_ would react was unknown. Kor Phaeron would seize the opportunity, of that he had no doubt – but what form that opportunity would take, he had no idea. Argel Tal was a wide card, a variable whose next actions Erebus could not predict. All among the Seventeenth knew of him, the first lord of the Gal Vorbak and Lorgar's favourite son, who had fallen from the Gods' favor and been executed by Erebus. Yet now that he had returned, the propaganda Erebus had carefully wrought around his kinslaying would fall apart, and the respect many still had for the Crimson Lord would surge back in strength.

Painfully, he was forced to admit to himself that his hold on the Seventeenth Legion was over … for now. All that mattered now was to avenge himself on those responsible for this setback. Erebus thought back to the reports he had received from informants, both mortal and otherwise, about the latest development across the Eye of Terror. And there, he found his answer as to what he had to do next – he found what it was the Gods intended him to do, and understood just why they had arranged for Argel Tal to come remove him from his position on Sicarius.

'Set a general course toward Sortiarus,' he said, every word sending new spikes of pain through his ruined face. 'I will guide the ship once I have recovered. I need to talk with the Phoenician.'


	37. Damned Oracle

AN : here is another chapter - another annex to our main story. This one came into existence after I finished listening to my audiobook version of the new _Black Legion_ , by Aaron Demski-Bowden. I really enjoyed it, and after about an hour at my keyboard, this story was written. For the full experience, imagine that this is spoken in the voice of Jonathan Keeble, who did an amazing work for _Black Legion_ and for all the other audios in which he participated. If you don't own a copy of one of his works, go on the Black Library website and listen to the free sample there.

Lots of stuff going on IRL, so I can't tell you when the next chapter of anything will be up. I am working on the Times of Ending for the RH in my ever-diminishing free time, though, and have commissioned Nemris for a new illustration, so look forward to it !

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.

* * *

I can hear you, Inquisitor. Stalking the darkness that surrounds me, trying to hide your presence with every artifice and technique known to Mankind. It is pointless, all of it. I can smell the scent of your soul, taste the fear in your heart as you enter this pit of disguised lies and blasphemous truths. There is no point in trying to hide. Do you really think that after so long alone down here, I would not notice when I finally have company ? Please. This kind of petty insult serves neither of us.

Yes, that is better. No need to be rude, now is there ? Let me take a good look at you, have a taste of your aura. You are a new one, aren't you ? I do not recognize your essence, though it shares the same traits all of your predecessors have. The unrelenting will, the unwavering self-righteousness … and hidden under it all, the creeping doubts and fear, the slow poison of horror eating away at your sanity. You have seen many things that had no place in your narrow view of the universe, have you not ? Then you know this first, most important and bitter of truths : revelation is never pleasant.

I always knew one of you would come back, eventually. Your kind cannot help it. You always come here, even though you know better. Always you are drawn to that which only I can offer you. Always there is some terrible _need_ , some abomination on the horizon that makes coming here and consorting with one such as me the lesser of two evils.

No, do not speak. There is no need for that, or did your predecessors not record their experiences here ? Ah, I assume they did not. Such knowledge would surely fall within the purview of that which you foolish Imperials think to be too dangerous to be known, even by those entrusted with the kind of authority you wield.

He has come back again, hasn't he ? My master, my maker, my lord. His shadow has emerged from the deep dark, cast once more upon the people you swore to keep enslaved to what you believe to be the will of a long dead false god. And now you crawl back to me, after keeping me locked alone in this prison for countless years, desperately seeking any scrap of lore I may possess, any morsel of knowledge that might reveal a chink in his armor.

Well, my master would not want you to be denied illumination – he was always a teacher at heart, as well as a warlord and a monster. Should I tell you then, of the secrets of the Planet of the Sorcerers ? Of the turnings of Fate, of the Great Game of the Gods ? Or perhaps you wish me to speak to you of the Heresy, that legendary war that is now lost to the mists of time ? Or maybe it is power you seek, the power to reshape the galaxy to your own vision of what it should be ?

Hmm ? What is it ? You wish me to tell you none of these things ? You want me to tell you my story, how I came to be down here below your fortress, chained in this dark pit, with the wards carved by your forebears denying me my powers and forcing me to answer any question asked even if not spoken aloud ? Is this tale not already recorded in your archives ? Or is it that those who came down here before have erased almost every trace of my existence, leaving only a trail of half-buried clues for you to follow like breadcrumbs leading to this place ? It is, isn't it. You scoured the secret archives of your predecessors for any clue as to how to defeat him, and you found me, hidden amidst cryptic metaphors and sealed references. It's always the same dance.

You will do the same, you know, when we are done here. You will leave this place, and once whatever drama Fate has in store plays out, you will erase all traces of me and what you learned here. Then you will set up another trail for another of your kind to follow in some distant future, when my master's hand once again reach out of the darkness. How many times do you thing this has all unfolded before ? Would you like to know ? Sometimes your predecessors succeeded in foiling him. Others they failed, and died in shame and dishonor, their souls burning forever in the Empyrean, cast out and abandoned, and it fell to their disciples to erase their traces leading here.

Which of them do you think were the most fortunate, Inquisitor ?

I suppose it doesn't matter in the end. You are here to learn what I am and how I came to be here, and by the bindings placed upon me I must answer. You hope to find some clue as to my lord's goals in my tale, like a hunter learning all he can of his prey before even leaving his keep and venturing into the dark woods.

Very well, then. Listen to my tale, Inquisitor. Listen to the story of how your precious, secret, _forbidden_ oracle was claimed from the claws of Ahzek Ahriman, the Arch-Sorcerer of Tzeentch, the Lord of the Rubric, Savior of the Thousand Sons, Favoured Son of the Cylops, the Broken God of the Eye, and a myriad other titles I have neither the patience nor the desire to speak.

Our story begins in ancient Terra, long before Mankind ever conceived of the true nature of the stars, before you even truly understood the miserable mudball you called home. It begins in an age of empires and conquest, of faiths with many gods waging war against one another. It begins with two empires ruling what their rulers believed to be vast territories, but was in fact but insignificant specks of dust in the grand scheme of things. One of the empires was old, having endured for millennia without changing, locked in a stasis its people believed to be divinely ordained. It has survived through the histories of Mankind as the Gyptian Empire. The other empire was young, and did not claim the title of empire though it was one in all but name. You know it as the Roman Empire. This later empire was strong, in the ascendant, while the former's glory was all but faded, destined to soon vanish from the world and go into history.

But there was one thing these two empires had in common. Both of them were at war with themselves, their rulers fighting each other with armies and schemes. When the Roman war came to Gyptian land, there was a betrayal, bloodshed, and a head offered by one of the Gyptian lords to his Roman peer in the hope of securing an alliance. But such barbarity offended the Roman lord greatly, and he allied with the Gyptian's foes instead. War raged, and armies clashed in a city that had stood for hundreds of years, where one of the first great libraries of Mankind had been built. During the battle, flames spread to the city, and soon they reached the library.

And there, amidst the flames of burning scrolls and the horrified screams of scholars watching their life's work vanish, I opened my eyes. I drank the lost knowledge these scrolls contained, I feasted upon the desperate efforts of these men to save what they could. I swallowed the souls of those who succumbed in the attempt, adding their lore to my burgeonning awareness. From the shadows I watched how even frail old men could find in themselves the strength of young heroes, driven to expand the last of their strength to safeguard the treasures of that antique library.

I saw it all, and I laughed, and the Warp laughed with me, for all that was lost in that great fire was mine, as is all the knowledge Mankind has and will ever seek to destroy through purifying flames. And there is _so much_ your species destroys, Inquisitor. Your own order has fed me well over the years, with your grand purges of the Imperium's libraries. That is how I can differentiate you from the others who came to my cell before, even blinded and bound as I am – you are all responsible for the destruction of different pieces of lore.

For a timeless eternity, I _existed_ in the Sea of Souls. I played my part in the great court of Fate, serving the God of Change with my lore and sorcery. Nine times in the course of history did I walk the mortal realm again, brought forth in all my terrible glory by those who served my divine master, rending reality apart with a single gesture. But most of my deeds were committed from within the Sea of Souls, as I whispered forgotten truths into the ears of those who sought wisdom in the secrets of the past. You cannot imagine how tempting the knowledge of long-lost records is for any scholar, how much they are willing to pay in return for even a fraction of what I have to offer. Thousands, _millions_ of souls I captured that way, offering them to my god. Then, I was taken.

I will not try to explain to you why we Neverborn call Ahriman the Broken God. Your small mind cannot comprehend the scope of what happened to him when he changed his Legion's fate, nor the destiny that lies ahead of him and against which he fights with his every breath. Simply know that his mind reaches far beyond the confines of the Eye where you believe he and his kind to have been exiled. His will touches the dreams of those who are vulnerable to his whispers, and they become his servants, willingly or not. You know of what I speak – you have fought these cults in the past, and it is the threat of one of them that has driven you here in this chamber.

It was one of these cults that bound me into this form I now inhabit. I know you can see my flesh as it is, despite the darkness – I can hear the whirring of the augmetics where you eyes should be. My flesh is wasted now, dessicated and rotten away, but such was the strength of the bindings placed upon me by the magisters who summoned me on that distant day that I am still kept trapped within it, denied my return to the Empyrean. These mortals had summoned me with the knowledge Ahriman had implanted in their minds, and they had done so for one purpose only : that I may wield my powers in their service. They asked me to rend reality apart, to open a gateway through which they could reach the domain of their distant god. And so I did, for I was bound to obey.

They fled through that portal, vanishing from reality and onto the realm my master calls home. A thousand scholars and savants, men and women who would learn that which your Ordos deny them, stolen away in a single night, to replenish the depleted ranks of the Fifteenth Legion's servants. They fled from the punishment that would be inflicted upon them if they were captured, knowing that they could never go back, that the Imperium would never forgive them their transgression against laws they were not even permitted to know existed. They fled … But they left me behind. They could have taken me with them – I believe I would have served my master well on his homeworld, in the endless wars that oppose him to the other powers of the Great Eye. But they left me, because my lord commanded it. They left me in the circle where I had been bound, and when the servants of the Golden Throne arrived – too late, far too late – they found me and captured me.

And now you know, little mortal. You know why it is that your forebears did not leave any trace of what they learned from me. It burns, does it not ? Truth ? This unpleasant revelation, its implications worming their way through your mind, twisting your thoughts and pulling them down paths that lead only to damnation. All who came here before you, those who succeeded in foiling my lord and those that failed, they are all dead now, and all equally damned by that knowledge.

Ohohoho, that is right. _That. Is. Right._ Your forebears did not _steal_ me from my master, tearing me from his control and binding me here so that you may plunder my secrets. I was _sent_ here, surrendered by my lord because he knew that no mind that has glimpsed the universe's truths could resist the temptation I represent. Why ? Maybe for vengeance. His soul is so full of hatred, after all, burning like a beacon to the Courts of the Gods. Or maybe it is for vindication, to prove that he is right, that he has always been right, and that you were wrong for banishing him and his kind, because the knowledge you deem forbidden is the only way to do battle against the forces of darkness. He is prideful as well, after all. So immensely prideful. His belief in his own power and intellect is his greatest strength and his greatest weakness all in one. Most of the time your predecessors succeded against him, it was by using this flaw against him.

Will you succeed, or will you fail ? Anyway, you will be playing in his hands. Everything you do from this point will be as a result of _his_ actions. And that is why, in the end, you have already lost.


	38. Servants of the Profligate One

In the depths of the Eye, where no starlight shone through the turbulent streams of wild Warp-energy and reality was at its weakest, the _Pride of the Emperor_ flashed into existence. The ship had once been a Gloriana-class battleship, the most powerful vessel of the entire Third Legion and flagship to Fulgrim himself. It still served that latter purpose, but nothing else of its former glory remained. In the days of the Heresy, when the Emperor's Children had broken their oaths of loyalty to the Golden Throne and embraced the corruption of the Youngest God, the _Pride of the Emperor_ had gone through much the same transformation as the Legionaries themselves. Its hull had been remade, painted in garish colors and hues that offended every human aesthetic, decorated with obscene statues and depraved vistas. Its machine-spirit had been tortured by the unhallowed modifications of mad geniuses, transformed into a twisted, malevolent thing that revealed in the suffering it inflicted to its foes and crew alike. Then the Warp had gotten involved.

Now, the _Pride of the Emperor_ was a grotesque monstrosity, a living leviathan that only bore enough resemblance to its former aspect that those who looked upon it could recognize what it had once been and weep for the majesty that it had lost. Cathedrals of living flesh rose from the ship's hull, lairs to packs of mad creatures whose forebears had, at some distant point in their ancestry, been human. Vox-speakers throughout the ship screamed endless disharmonies that shattered the minds of those who couldn't escape them. On the decks where Emperor's Children had fought the Ultramarines and their successor Chapters during the final confrontation between Fulgrim and Guilliman, the ghosts of both sides were still locked in an eternal battle.

Daemons of the Youngest God stalked the decks, feeding off the sensations and emotions of the mortal chattel, stealing the lives of those psychically gifted in order to experience new heights of pleasure and pain – entire existences ruined, for at best a few days of something _new_. Entire civilizations dwelled in the ship's darkholds, completely enthralled to the insanity-inducing influence of the ship, building self-destructive cults for the amusement of their lords before collapsing in frenetic orgies of violence and degradation. Champions of the Dark Prince rose and fell, their legends whispered for generations among their tribes but unknown to any beyond them.

The Emperor's Children themselves were distant overlords to these wretched creatures, dwelling in the upper decks and only descending below when they sought prey to hunt, capture and torture for sport. Few sons of Fulgrim remained on their Primarch's flagship – the battle that had seen Guilliman slain had cost them dearly, and the new world Slaanesh had prepared for them was unkind to its would-be masters. When the _Pride of the Emperor_ had sailed from the daemonworld, barely a hundred Legionaries had populated its halls, less than a fraction of the thousands the Gloriana-class was designed to accommodate. However, each of them was a champion of the Dark Prince, his flesh reshaped into forms more pleasing to the Youngest God and worthy of leading an entire warband cast in his image. By choice and fate, they had remained close to their Daemon Primarch as the Third Legion fell to pieces in the aftermath of the Siege of Terra, following their lord out of loyalty – or opportunism. One eye of the Dark Prince was ever turned toward the Phoenician, and those who stayed near Fulgrim could hope to catch the attention of their patron. Furthermore, simply being near the sire of the Third Legion was an experience like none other – his mere presence stimulated the senses in a way nothing else could, and granted flashes of inspiration that led warriors that had once been paragons of honor and dignity to ever deeper depths of excess.

Around the Third Legion's twisted flagship, a fleet of the Lost and the Damned slowly formed. Vessels that had come from all branches of the Imperium but had all ended up damned to the same whispering god gathered, drawn to the power of Fulgrim like moths to an open flame, willing to burn to ash for a chance to bask in its radiance. Warbands of Slaanesh had come from all over the Eye of Terror, heeding the call of the Dark Prince's favourite son. The Emperor's Children formed the bulk of the Astartes element of the gathered force, but they weren't alone : there were Night Lords ships, and others of the Alpha Legion, Word Bearers, Iron Warriors – even a few of the traitor Dark Angels. And with them had come hundreds of other ships – former vessels of the Imperial Army, of the Dark Mechanicum, of the debased civilizations that existed within the Great Eye.

Some had been summoned by dream visions, or by prophecies spoken by trusted seers and shamans. Others, like the host of Emperor's Children who had called Harmony their home, had been visited by emissaries of the Phoenician. The _Pride of the Emperor_ had sailed off alone, but now it was surrounded by hundreds of vessels of all size, the lesser ships kept away from the _Pride_ by other Astartes crafts, like sworn guards protecting their king – or crows flying around a corpse. All ships of the fleet bore the touch of the Youngest God, some in subtle and barely perceptible ways, while others were daemonships, their crew now part of the vessel they had called home. These leviathans sailed under no captain, though a few had kept the mutated husks of the men and women who had once commanded them trapped in a twisted parody of life, and still spoke through their lips over vox-channels. They had been summoned to join the fleet by Fulgrim's own call and the Neverborn heralds who had carried his command to the daemons who served the Dark Prince.

There was no order to the fleet, but there was an undeniable beauty to the dance of the ships in the tainted void. No admiral had ordered their formations, but all captains and shipmasters felt the touch of Fulgrim's will upon their souls, and they played their part in the Phoenician's design, instinctively directing their ship where it needed to be, knowing when the _Pride of the Emperor_ was about to start up what passed for its Warp engines again and go on the next step of their journey. Not all among the fleet knew what their ultimate destination was – the Legionaries knew, of course, as did those who had once belonged to the Great Crusade, but many of the Eye-born forces simply followed the serpent-like god that had summoned them, desperate to earn his favour at any cost.

Nor had all ships survived throughout the journey so far. Though more ships joined the fleet on each step of its path to Sortiarus, many were also lost during each translation. Navigators had difficulties following the _Pride of the Emperor_ , even as it crashed through the storms ahead of them and left the Warp marginally calmer in its wake. Some of the lost vessels simply failed to keep up, or were swept aside by aetheric currents. But others were destroyed, their Geller fields breached by the tide of daemons that followed the fleet everywhere. Their decks were swept clean of life as the Neverborn devoured their crew, feasting on the horror of their last moments. But the ships of the Third Legion were all spared such fates, which the Emperor's Children rightly took as a sign of their Dark God's favour. Slaanesh's eternal hunger for the souls of his followers was great, but the Dark Prince's desire to bring down the Thousand Sons and end Tzeentch's supremacy in the Great Game was stronger. Already the balance of power between the Four had shifted considerably toward the God of Lies. Champions of Tzeentch across the Eye found their blessings strengthened, while cults of the Changer of Ways blossomed across the galaxy beyond.

Within the Eye of Terror, the Illuminated Empire was growing, daemon worlds being conquered by the armies of the Fifteenth Legion. Word of Mortarion's defeat had spread through the infernal realm, and warbands were flocking to the banner of the Crimson King. While Magnus was gone and Ahriman busy rebuilding the Planet of the Sorcerers, other Exalted Sorcerers had left their homeworld to lead conquering hosts. Fortress after fortress had fallen to these circles of magicians and their mortal armies, some surrendering outright and pledging fealty, others gutted by sorcery before the handful of survivors hosted a white flag and begged for mercy. Some Exalted Sorcerers had bound armies of daemons into their service, while others used their enhanced powers as a scalpel, assassinating the commanders of their enemies without ever stepping foot on their worlds. But regardless of the means employed, the Thousand Sons gained far more victories than they suffered defeats – though they had still suffered a few of those, the Eye of Terror not being a place where _anyone_ could truly ever be supreme. Still, the simple truth remained : this had to end.

And so the Dark Prince had done something he had never done before : he had called his followers to gather into one vast army, a host mighty enough to bring the Illuminated Empire to its knees. Never before had the fractious, selfish servants of the Youngest God gathered in such numbers – even when the forces of Chaos had laid siege to Holy Terra, there hadn't been as many souls marked by She-Who-Thirsts among the besiegers' ranks. Rituals were taking place in sanctified chambers, summoning Daemonettes and Keepers of Secrets to join the host. These Neverborn remained silent, eyes fixed in the direction of their destination, radiating their desire for destruction.

For the chance to taste an empire's death, the children of Slaanesh were willing to put aside their competing prides and hungers … for a time, at least. Eventually, they would turn against one another again, no matter the command of their god – for they were reflection of Slaanesh's own paradoxical nature, and the servants of Ruin could never truly cooperate. Always they would struggle for supremacy, to drink the sweet wine of imposing one's will and whim upon another.

Aboard the _Pride of the Emperor_ , in a chamber that had once been the gathering halls of the Third Legion's elite, Eidolon the Soul-Severed, he who had died and lived again, knelt before the one being in the universe he was willing to call _master_. The former Lord-Commander had recovered from the wounds he had sustained on Harmony, but the scars were still fresh, and every movement sent sharp pain through his body as the skin tore open and blood dripped through them – to Eidolon's delight. He could have had the wounds covered with bandages or sealing material, but what would have been the fun in that ? As it was, every spike of agony was a reminder of the one who had inflicted the wounds upon him, and a renewal of his vows of vengeance. But even these blessed sensations were _nothing_ compared to being in the presence of his master.

' _ **You have brought the forces of Harmony to us,'**_ said the creature that towered above Eidolon's kneeling form in a voice more beautiful than any other sound, and more hideous than the shrieks of the damned of a thousand different species. **_'Well done, my child.'_**

Fulgrim, the Phoenician, Primarch of the Emperor's Children and the Chosen of Slaanesh, had changed greatly since the day he had first been touched by the Dark Prince, on the distant and long-destroyed world of Laeran. He had completely left his mortal origins behind and embraced the true potential that had always been his to claim, and become an immortal prince of the Empyrean, a being that could no more destroyed than the very idea of decadence itself. No other Daemon Primarch, save perhaps that rage-consumed avatar of destruction Angron, had walked as far down the path of his patron god – and he was the only one to have done so willingly. Angron had been manipulated by Lorgar into walking the final step into immortality, and had been forced onto the Eightfold Path from the very beginning. Mortarion had been forced into accepting the Plague God's blessings to save his Legion from Nurgle's wrath. And Magnus … well. Everyone knew about Magnus.

' _ **Yet, you have also failed. Where is Fabius, Eidolon ? Where is my Chief Apothecary ?'**_

Like all creatures of the Warp, Fulgrim looked different to all who looked upon him, though there were always a handful of common features. The perceptions and hidden desires of any observer shaped how he or she saw the Phoenician, but always he was a white, four-armed snake-like being of ineffable grace. This time, in Eidolon's eyes, his Primarch's face was identical to the one he had worn back when his soul had been contained within a vessel of gene-forged flesh, except for network of tattoos of bone-white ink that moved endlessly on his skin in suggestive patterns. Fulgrim did not carry any weapon, but Eidolon wasn't foolish enough to believe his master could not kill him in moments if he so desired. Such … powerlessness was a rare experience for the Soul-Severed, and he savored it even as he loathed every second of it.

'He betrayed us, lord. He attacked me, refused to submit to your commands, and fled. He took his ship and those of his followers who were willing to join him in his treachery, and ...'

' _ **Fled ?'**_ The laughter of Fulgrim echoed across the chamber, causing sculptures on the walls to weep in agony. _**'He did not**_ **flee** ** _. He tore your flesh apart, left you on the ground, and departed his domain with his prizes to join our enemies. He did not flee, Eidolon. He_** **beat** ** _you.'_**

Eidolon bristled at that, but he did not deny it. Not only was it the truth, opposing his Primarch would be a supremely foolish thing to do. Then what Fulgrim had said fully registered.

'He joined our enemies ?' Eidolon gasped, unable to believe it. 'Bile went to Sortiarus ? The Thousand Sons will kill him as soon as he arrives ! What is he thinking ?'

Again that mind-searing laughter, full of mocking joy and contempt. If Eidolon had not already been kneeling, he might have lost his balance, so powerful was the effect of his Primarch's hilarity. It burned at his mind, filling him with pleasure and terror, torment and relief, visions of glory and images of his own body, battered and broken, held up by chains forged from the iron of his blood.

' _ **You underestimate the depths of Ahriman's pragmatism, my little revenant. To protect his Legion, the Arch-Sorcerer will do**_ **anything** ** _, including allying with Fabius. Already the Warp sings of their alliance, of the great and terrible things it portends.'_**

'I will kill him,' growled Eidolon. 'That traitor will pay for his betrayal, my lord. I will ...'

' _ **You will do nothing,'**_ interrupted the being known to countless cults across the galaxy as the White Naga. **_'Nothing but that which_** **I** ** _command. Do not fret, I did not believe you would be able to bring him to begin with. Fabius has long since turned away from the Profligate One, but he still serves our god, in his way … even if he will have to be brought back to the fold, in time.'_**

'How can he serve Slaanesh if he sides with the enemies of the Youngest God ?' asked Eidolon. 'If he has allied with the Fifteenth Legion, they will become even stronger than they already are.'

' _ **The designs of the Youngest God are not for you to contemplate,'**_ replied the Daemon Primarch, an Eidolon tensed at his master's displeasure – but already Fulgrim's attention was on something else, his eyes peering at one of the walls, looking at something far beyond it. _**'You brought Lucius along with you, and that is enough to atone for your failure where Fabius is concerned. Now … leave. We will have another ally joining us soon, and you will bring him to me when he arrives.'**_

With a final bow, Eidolon left the chamber, leaving his gene-sire alone with the Neverborn that crowded the shadows. On his way to the massive, golden double door, he could hear them snickering in the darkness, mocking him for his failure and the summary dismissal it had cost him. When the doors closed behind him, the effect of his Primarch's aura vanished, and he almost stumbled, suddenly fighting against the urge to turn and go back into the room, into the presence of his lord and master. Many mortals, upon looking at Fulgrim, were unable to ever leave his presence, and would starve to death rather than be taken away from him. Even Astartes had difficulties abandoning the narcotic effect the Daemon Primarch's proximity had on them. But Eidolon was used to the presence of his Primarch, and he barely faltered before recomposing himself.

'Lord Eidolon,' came a voice over the vox. 'A ship has just breached the edge of the storms, and it isn't one of ours. Its identification codes read as the _Destiny's Hand._ '

' _Ah,'_ breathed the Soul-Severed. 'Of course. Tell Erebus our Primarch wants to talk with him.'

* * *

AN : Here is the first part where Fulgrim is presented - though he will play a great part in the events to come. You know, for a long time I wondered why Games Workshop has so much less material on Slaanesh than the other Dark Gods recently - like in the Age of Sigmar, where the Dark Prince was replaced by the Horned Rat. But then I read again what I just wrote, and I realized that I can understand the decision of the marketing committee whose job it is to bring the Warhammer universe to as broad an audience as possible. Because anything that touches to She-Who-Thirsts quickly gets very, very disturbing (and I held back quite a bit in this chapter).

Of course, I would still prefer if they made special units and codexes for the Dark Prince's armies the way they did for Khorne and will be doing for Nurgle, but I understand why they don't want their stores to be filled with ... well, you can imagine what. Fortunately, I am not bound by the same constraints, so expect a lot of Slaaneshi units to be introduced in the war between Fulgrim's host and the Illuminated Empire ! Also, thanks to the spacebattles readers of this story, who began to use that name for the Thousand Sons kingdom - I just decided to run with it.

Argel Tal on Sicarius, Bile on the Planet of the Sorcerers, Magnus on Medrengard, and Fulgrim attacking Sortiarus ... So many things to take care of, but I am confident I will be able to tie them all together. In the meantime, though, our next chapter should be about Erebus meeting Fulgrim, and should be written from the Dark Apostle's perspective. I know all of you love to hate Erebus, so look forward to it !

Zahariel out.


	39. Pride and Consequences

'Lord Fulgrim,' said Erebus, bowing his head in respect to the Daemon Primarch. 'It is an honor to meet you again after so long. The Dark Prince has been generous with his blessings to you.'

The Dark Apostle was meeting his host in what had once been known as _La Fenice_ , a place that was infamous throughout the Nine Legions. Here was where the Emperor's Children had truly embraced the worship of Slaanesh, where the first of the Noise Marines had picked up their sonic weapons from the twisted instruments that had taken part in the _Maraviglia,_ the symphony of madness that had broken the veil between reality and the Realm of Chaos with nothing but divinely inspired harmonies. Like two performers in a play, Erebus and Fulgrim stood on the scene, surrounded by rows of ruined seats. For the first time in the Gods knew how long, there was an audience beyond the ghosts of those who had found their end here : warriors of the Emperor's Children had come to the meeting, along with coteries of mortal slaves. They watched in silence, but Erebus could feel their fascination at the scene – they were revelling in their Primarch's presence, and at the sight of his own submission to Fulgrim's greater power.

It was Fulgrim who had moved their meeting here after Erebus had arrived aboard the _Pride of the Emperor._ The Daemon Primarch had known he was about to arrive, as Erebus had expected he would, and the Lord-Commander Eidolon had brought the Dark Apostle to his master with little difficulties beyond the usual posturing that came with every meeting of warlords from different Legions. They had been half-way to the Primarch's quarters when the voice of Fulgrim had echoed around them, commanding his son to bring their guest to the Fenice instead. That had forced them to walk all the way across the kilometers-long ship, a blunt but effective reminder of who held the upper hand in this meeting. Erebus' guards, a duo of Word Bearers who each shared their flesh with a Neverborn Erebus himself had bound to their souls, were among the audience, in the first rank – closest to their master, even if they would be worse than useless against one such as Fulgrim.

There was power here, that much couldn't be denied. Power far greater than his own, no matter how much it chafed Erebus to admit it. Once he had commanded forces that would have allowed him to speak to the being before him as an equal – now he came as a supplicant, forced to kneel before someone far above him in the hierarchy of the Gods' chosen. Not only had he lost his place in the Dark Council when that wretch Argel Tal had forced him to leave Sicarius, his sorcerous powers had also been diminished by the ordeal. The wounds he had sustained in his escape were still healing, even with all of his acolytes' efforts, and the weakness of his flesh was reflected by the weakness of his aura – and therefore, his powers over the Warp. The burning pain he had felt constantly for the last six months of journey through the Empyrean was an afterthought compared to that humiliating weakness, and he had sworn many times that Argel Tal would pay for it.

The damage his body had suffered was plainly visible on his bare head. He had managed to regenerate his lost eye, but something in the ritual had gone awry – or the Gods had chosen to grant him one of their more mysterious gifts – and it had resulted in a yellow orb with a black vertical slit that only saw vague shapes of the essence of ensouled creatures. It had taken Erebus three days to get used to the two wildly different images his eyes displayed, after he had decided not to replace it by an augmetic. The gifts of the Gods were to be treasured, even when they were unpleasant. That was one of the Iron Warriors' mistakes, and not one Erebus would repeat lest he draws the Gods' ire upon himself. Regardless of what had happened to him, he was still the Hand of the Gods, and he would do as they intended him to do. And at the moment, the Gods wanted the Thousand Sons brought low, which meant serving the designs of Fulgrim, no matter how demeaning.

' _ **Such pride,'**_ whispered the Daemon Primarch, slithering closer to the Dark Apostle, and Erebus was startled when he realized he could hear the voice in his mind as well, and wondered how much of his thoughts the Phoenician had been able to listen to. _**'It has ever been so with you, Erebus. Even when you kneel, even when you profess your undying loyalty, you still consider yourself above the one you are speaking to. Even now, you think yourself higher than me, do you not? You think that you serve all of the Gods, while I am but the first slave of one of them. Such delightful arrogance. Such perfectly forged hubris. The artistry that went into making you what you are is a true wonder, nephew.**_ _ **The Gods truly outdid themselves with you.**_ _ **'**_

Erebus seethed in silence as the crowd of Slaaneshi worshippers laughed at their Primarch's words, jeering and mocking him as he knelt before the White Naga. His two guards remained perfectly stoic, acutely aware that the slightest provocation would get them and their master killed.

'I have come to help you in your war against the Thousand Sons,' declared Erebus, ignoring the words of the Daemon Primarch, burying his anger at Fulgrim's foolish comments deeply. 'The sons of Magnus have upset the equilibrium between the Powers, and they must be punished for their arrogance. It is the will of the Gods, even if Tzeentch, as ever, plays both sides of the conflict.'

' _ **Of course,'**_ scoffed Fulgrim, and his white, scaled tail perked up and slowly stroked Erebus' scarred face, sending shivers of fresh agony through his entire body. _**'I am sure this has nothing to do with the fact Argel Tal cast you out of your comfortable fortress after Ahriman freed him from his chains. Or with the fact that you are here without your Primarch's or your Legion's support. No, it is because of the Gods' will, as always. Such a loyal, obedient servant you are.'**_

'The Illuminated Empire cannot be allowed to continue its growth,' continued the Dark Apostle, still holding his temper in check. 'You know this, Lord Fulgrim. Is it not the reason why you have gathered so impressive a host ? You are doing the will of the Dark Prince – to bring down the Thousand Sons before their ascendancy in the Great Game turns the balance in Tzeentch's favor for the rest of eternity. Neither you nor I can tolerate such an outcome. But I have lost my hold on the Seventeenth Legion to that upstart Argel Tal, and you … well. We all know what happened last time one of your brothers tried to take on the Fifteenth Legion, don't we ? You need my help, lord. With Fabius Bile turning against you' - he had learned _that_ particular tidbit of information at quite a price from his Neverborn contacts, but it had been worth it - 'you need an edge, something your enemies will not expect. I am it. Without my knowledge, without my power, your attack will be beaten back by the Thousand Sons just like Mortarion's was. The truth is that you _need_ me … my lord.'

There was a moment of silence, and Erebus suddenly dreaded that he had gone too far, that he had let his well-deserved pride get the better of him. He had already done so once in face of a Primarch, and his encounter with Argel Tal had refreshed the memory of Horus flaying his face. He knew that if Fulgrim decided to punish him, the torments he would endure would make that agony seem like a pleasing caress. Then the fanged maw of the Daemon Primarch opened wide, and a deep, melodious laughter emanated from the black abyss that lurked behind rows of pointed, pearl-white teeth.

' _ **Indeed ?'**_ laughed the Phoenician. **_'You know less than you think, nephew. Bile turning to the side of the Fifteenth Legion is an insult that my Chief Apothecary will need to atone for … But even he does not know all the secrets of my Legion, all the powers I have gathered under my banner. Maybe I do need your help. Or maybe I don't. Your arrogance is truly boundless … but you might still hold value beyond the entertainment you provide. The Dark Prince arranged your coming here, though you would do well to be cautious of his true designs. So be it, Erebus.'_** The White Naga spread out his four arms in a gesture of welcome that was entirely too threatening to be sincere. _ **'Welcome to our beautiful, terrible,**_ **perfect** ** _army.'_**

' _ **Now that you are here,'**_ continued Fulgrim, _**'we can continue on our way to Sortiarus. We must make haste, for my dear brother's absence will not last much longer, and I oh so want to surprise him when he returns to his lair. I have beseeched the Dark Prince to keep they Cyclops unaware of what is going on in his dominion, but eventually he will catch up that something is wrong. We must strike before that happens. Go back to your ship, Erebus. Make all your preparations, reach out to what remains of your networks. Call upon your spies hidden within the ranks of the Thousand Sons' allied warbands and set your schemes in motion. When we arrive to the Planet of the Sorcerers, you shall prove your worth … or you shall die, slowly and painfully.'**_

The last words were added as an afterthought, something that all present knew had always been part of any alliance the Dark Apostle could hope to forge with the Daemon Primarch. Erebus bowed his head under the cheers of the assembled Emperor's Children, and left without another word. On the outside, he was the perfect picture of calm, but in truth, he was wondering how the Phoenician had known about his agents in Sortiarus. He had taken every precaution, enough to keep them hidden even from the Thousand Sons' psychic powers and divining abilities. How had Fulgrim known about them ? And more importantly, did Magnus know as well ? It seemed unlikely that the Crimson King would be unaware of something in his own domain while Fulgrim knew of it, but Magnus had shown remarkable blind spots in the past, for all his vaunted wisdom. And if Fulgrim had truly managed to gain Slaanesh' help in keeping Magnus from knowing about an assault on Sortiarus … This opened many possibilities that Erebus wouldn't have considered before.

On their way to the gunship that had brought him across from the _Destiny's Hand_ , Erebus and his guards were accosted by Eidolon. Though the Lord-Commander had been present at the audience and was still clad in his Terminator armor, he had somehow managed to move through the ship's twisting corridors to arrive ahead of the Word Bearers.

'Erebus,' called out Eidolon, something like a smile on his face. 'There is someone I want you to meet before you leave us. The Primarch told us about those of our allies Bile does not know about – it seems only fair to me that you be introduced to one of them. Come out, my dear.'

The Lord-Commander gestured to one of the adjacent corridors, which was plunged into total darkness, impenetrable even to an Astartes' sight – hardly an unusual thing aboard a ship as deeply touched by the Warp as the _Pride of the Emperor._ A humanoid figure emerged into the light. Behind Erebus, his two guards tensed, the daemons coursing through their blood suddenly rising to the fore, spitting wordless curses into the aether in reaction to the sudden new presence.

The first Dark Apostle of the Seventeenth Legion had seen many horrible things in the course of his life, things that would have driven most mortal minds into insanity. He had encountered all of the Nine Legions' Primarchs, before and after the ascension of those who had cast off their mortality. Only months before, he had witnessed a brother he had killed himself return as an ascended champion of the Pantheon to destroy all that he had built since arriving in the Eye. The many horrors of the _Pride of the Emperor_ had not even frazzled him, for all their decadence and corruption. Yet the _thing_ that now appeared before him filled him with revulsion like nothing had ever done, and it took all of his will to hold himself back from striking it down. The fact that his guards, whose will while strong was far lesser than his own, also managed to hold their revulsion in check, told him that whatever the creature was it was not to be underestimated.

To the mortal eye, it looked like one of the Eldar, thin and pale of skin, its face and body shape showing the typical features of a female of this alien breed. It wore a simple armor of white and purple material bearing the rune of Slaanesh upon its breast. But it was to Erebus' psychic senses that the true nature of the creature was revealed, and that image superseded what his mundane eyes told him. The _thing_ was a yawning abyss, a psychic gulf that connected directly to the ravenous, eternal hunger of She-Who-Thirsts. Whatever the Eldar had once been, it was now nothing more than a vessel for the appetites of the Youngest God, a puppet dancing on the Dark Prince's strings. Yet there was also a sentience there, malevolent and infinitely cruel, and it smiled as Erebus looked upon it, fully aware of his gaze. Neverborn of the Dark Prince were all fragments of the Chaos God, but even they did not possess such a vicious aura – merely standing near it was making Erebus feel as if his soul was being sucked out of his body, and he was almost certain that, if not for his power among the courts of the Gods, it would actually have been.

'We call them the Maelat,' explained Eidolon, his voice reaching Erebus' consciousness as if it came from a great distance – yet even so, there was no mistaking the amusement in his tone at the Dark Apostle's discomfort. 'It means "children of the Merciless One" in the Eldar tongue, as I am sure you know. We found them on our new homeworld when we journeyed to the Eye of Terror after killing Guilliman, waiting to serve the chosen of the Youngest God. When Fulgrim gathered us for this crusade, hundreds of them left the temples and castles to join our army.'

'What _are_ they ?' asked Erebus, finally finding his voice.

'They are the descendants of those Eldar who did not turn from the Youngest God when he was born in the death of their species,' revealed Eidolon, clearly relishing the look of shock his words brought to Erebus' face. 'Come on, Erebus. Surely you did not believe _all_ of the soul-broken rejected the Dark Prince ? Even if the immense majority of them refused to accept the truth of their own decadence, there were still those wise enough to both see and embrace the inevitable.'

'Their presence … They will make useful weapons against the Thousand Sons,' noted Erebus.

'Our very own version of the Sisters of Silence,' chuckled the Soul-Severed. 'The sorcerers' powers will be broken, and victory will be ours. Oh, the Maelat's abilities come from a very different source … but the effect of their presence on psykers is pretty much the same, in the end.'

 _That_ was an understatement if Erebus had ever heard one. He had been in the presence of the Sisters of Silence before, and had manipulated a Pariah during the Horus Heresy, in an attempt to kill the False Emperor that had ultimately failed. Both the untouchables and the Maelat were abysses of a kind to psychic perceptions. But those who manifested the Pariah gene were like the infinite void of space, mercilessly cold and empty, sapping the psychic strength of all who were near them. The Maelat's aura was a gulf leading to the deepest pits of Hell itself, echoing with the screams of the damned. It was through the raw _torment_ they exuded that psykers would be incapacitated, unable to open themselves to the currents of the Aether lest the agony of the Maelat's aura burned their minds and souls. It was a weapon as vicious as it would be effective.

'Why are you showing me this ?' asked Erebus, his paranoia rising to the fore once more.

'Because you are going back to your ship to plot our common enemies' downfall,' replied Eidolon. 'And it only makes sense to share intelligence on our assets to one so strategically gifted as you, does it not ? Your cunning intellect would be of no use to us if we kept you in the dark.'

That made sense, but Erebus could still hear the sarcasm hidden behind the Soul-Severed's words. Just like when he had faced Fulgrim, the Lord-Commander was subtly (and not so subtly) insulting and threatening him. Erebus' sorcery would be next to useless against the Maelat, unless he could study them extensively before – something he doubted he would have the opportunity to do, despite Eidolon's reassurances that they were all on the same side. Should the Emperor's Children decide it, the Maelat would come for him as well. The Dark Apostle was also all too aware that, if the Emperor's Children were willing to share knowledge of such a secret weapon with him, then they doubtlessly had other gifts of the Youngest God held in reserve as insurance against treachery.

That was fine. So did he.

* * *

AN : Fun fact : on page 113 of the 8th edition rulebook, one can find an illustration of all the Eldar breeds with a legend telling you what each bubble depicts. We have the Harlequins, the Exodites, the Corsairs, the Craftworlders, etc, etc ... Except for the number 3, which shows some kind of monster with the "REDACTED" legend and the symbol of Slaanesh next to the illustration.

My first reaction upon seeing it was : "I frakking knew it !" since it pretty much confirms that the Sha'eilat, the Eldar who embraced the worship of Slaanesh when the Fall happened that I invented for my story **Warband of the Forsaken Sons** , actually exist in canon (though likely with another, far stupider name, and considering Slaanesh's diminishing presence in the canon, we are unlikely to ever see them). Still, I decided to make these fallen (or, from the point of view of Chaos, ascended) Eldar part of this story - mostly because I needed a way to make the Slaaneshi host a credible threat to the Illuminated Empire.

The Maelat are different from the Sha'eilat in many ways - they are both far more dangerous and far less powerful. They are true slaves to the Dark Prince, rather than willing servants. We will see more of them in the continuation of the story. Also, the Sha'eilat's primary tool is their mastery of genetics, whereas the Maelat are psychic abominations the likes of which the galaxy has rarely seen.

I expect a lot of you will enjoy Erebus' treatment in this chapter. Remember, though, for all the hate directed at him both in and out of universe, the first Dark Apostle is still a powerful being, a Lord of Chaos like few others. He will soon have the opportunity to prove his worth to his masters once more.

As always, remember to leave a review/comment telling me what you thought of that chapter and what you are excited for in the story's future. This fic is an opportunity for me to try a lot of different things (the annexes about Ahriman's fragments are especially great for that), so I am able to listen to your suggestions a lot more. What other horrors lurk in the depths of the _Pride of the Emperor_ and the rest of the Slaaneshi fleet, awaiting Fulgrim's command to be unleashed against the defenders of Sortiarus ? Give me your suggestions !

Zahariel out.


	40. The Great Betrayal

The truth, when it came, often did so from the most unexpected of sources. That was something the Thousand Sons had learned long ago, from the parables taught to the children of Prospero by their mentors and guardians. The philosophers of their lost homeworld had always been dedicated to the pursuit of truth, believing as they had that the only good was knowledge, and the only evil ignorance. The Thousand Sons had followed that belief, even when it had brought the Wolves at their door. But when the latest revelation reached them, it was an unpleasant one.

Most Thousand Sons stayed away from the various groups that had been brought to Sortiarus by the fragments of Ahriman's mind. None of the sons of Magnus liked to be reminded of the affliction that plagued the greatest of them, and each of these warriors and scholars were living proof of Ahriman's slow but inevitable transfiguration from Astartes into … something more. Yet the mortal inhabitants of the Planet of the Sorcerers still interacted with them, and the Thousand Sons interacted with their servants – and so, eventually, the rumor reached them. It spread across their ranks like wildfire, and was met with a wild array of reactions, all of which were represented when it was finally presented to the council that ruled the system in Magnus' absence.

'You are joking,' breathed Khayon. It was all he could say. 'This cannot be true.'

'I have interrogated dozens of those who came from the Imperium's worlds and retained their sanity, tough finding them was no easy task amidst the madmen and fanatics,' said Amon, who had led the investigation into the rumor and was now presenting his findings. 'I have peered into their minds and witnessed the evidence of their claims for myself in their memories. I have led circles into the summoning of Neverborn and demanded answers of them while under bindings that enforced their honesty, and parsed their laughing claims and metaphors for days. It is true, brother, no matter how much you and I would both prefer it otherwise. The Imperium now worship the Emperor as a god. They have built monuments to Him, and the organization that direct this faith is one of the most powerful in the galaxy. The Imperial Truth is dead.'

The Thousand Sons had turned against the Imperium for their own reasons, but they had all heard why _Horus_ had done so in the first place. The story had been spread among the Sons of Horus, and later to their allies. It spoke of the vision Horus had been granted of the Imperium's future : a kingdom of superstition and blind worship, the light of the Great Crusade's ideals destroyed. Humanity, enslaved to an organization that no one controlled anymore, its soul ground into dust by the pitiless wheels of petty bureaucracy. The species dying agonizingly slowly, rotten from the inside by stagnancy and doomed to a pathetic end. No matter what the Warmaster had become by the end of his rebellion, regardless of the dark fires that had consumed his soul when he had looked down upon Terra from the bridge of the _Vengeful Spirit_ in the war's final hours, he had taken the first step toward rebellion in the hope of avoiding that terrible future. And now, the Thousand Sons were understanding that it was that very rebellion that would bring on that future. Every single Legionary and human soldier who had raised Horus' banner in defiance of the Golden Throne had been betrayed, manipulated by … well. It was obvious who was responsible.

The reactions of the gathered Exalted Sorcerers could be seen from kilometers around Ahriman's Silver Tower, as the aetheral material reacted to their violent emotions. The heavens above, eternally turbulent with the thoughts of the billions of souls calling the Planet of the Sorcerers home, erupted into a storm. Multi-colored lightning fell upon the surroundings, reaching as far as the outskirts of Sortiarus' capital city. The ghosts of the treacherous dead rose from the ground, moaning in despair before crashing against the wards surrounding any construction on the planet. Deep in the wilderness, hermits emerged from their caves, their madness suddenly cleared away and replaced by a truth far more horrible than anything their insanity could ever have conjured. In the city, humans, mutants, Astartes, daemons and other, less identifiable creatures looked at the tower with whatever passed for dread in their hearts, wondering what had happened. Beyond the confines of the Eye of Terror, Imperial priests woke up in their beds covered in cold sweat, haunted by visions of towering figures looking down upon them with burning hatred in their gaze.

In the room itself, Amon and Ahriman were the only ones who remained calm, though even the Arch-Sorcerer couldn't quite conceal the trembling of his steepled hands. Sanakht started laughing madly, holding his bare head with both hands and trembling incontrollably. Ashur-Kai was completely immobile except for his lips, which moved silently, too fast for anyone to read what words – if any – they were forming. Forrix's face was slack, his mouth open, his eyes trembling as his mind tried to comprehend what he had just learned. Ignis stood utterly still, his armor locked in place, but the air around him rippled with screaming faces and unborn daemons being born and immediately consumed by the inferno of his smouldering rage. Akhor'menet was cursing the folly of mortal men in ancient Tizcan and making oaths to purge every trace of that false faith from the stars. Around Ctesias, the hundreds of lesser daemons who constantly remained at the daemonist's side vanished, fleeing from his wrath even as he remained outwardly calm. And Bile, standing a little away from the others, stroke the crystalline skull atop his Rod of torment, the thoughts passing behind his eyes impossible to guess by minds mortal or immortal.

Most violent of all was Khayon's reaction, who of all the Exalted Sorcerers was closest to his emotions, and all the more powerful for them. The Necromancer's screams of fury, horror and denial caused flocks of Neverborn to take flight from the tower's walls, fleeing the waves of unchecked power that had turned dozens of them to a thin black ash. That ash rained upon the ground and caused trees of dark crystal and betrayed dreams to grow. In weeks to come, tribes of mutants would harvest the strange fruits that grew upon these trees, and their shamans and champions would receive new and terrible gifts from consuming them as a shred of Khayon's anger passed on into their flesh. In the room, the walls began to grow, pieces breaking off them in a storm of kinetic energy. The she-wolf, Gyre, was howling, sharing her master's spiritual turmoil even as her bestial nature failed to grasp its cause, and the sound carried with it the bitter memories and burning smell of a lost homeworld. Khayon was losing control of his power along with his emotions, and given the Necromancer's strength, that could quickly degenerate. But none of the others reacted to it – they were all too lost in their own contemplations of this hideous revelation.

'Enough, Iskandar,' declared Ahriman, nearly shouting to be heard over the vacarm caused by his brother's outburst. The black-clad Legionary didn't react, and the Arch-Sorcerer put power in his next word, silencing the psychic manifestations with a single pulse of his will : _'_ _ **ENOUGH**_ _!'_

Khayon swirled to face Ahriman … and froze when he saw his brother's collected demeanor.

'You knew,' realized the Necromancer, his fury giving over to shock. 'It was _your_ fragments that brought them here, so of course you would know about this … this abomination.'

'I wasn't sure, but I suspected,' admitted Ahriman with obvious reluctance. 'My awareness of these … _shards_ is limited. I had a general sense that something had changed in the Imperium since the rebellion, but considering the whole situation, I didn't want to make assumptions.'

' _Assumptions ?'_ hissed Khayon. 'You didn't want to make _assumptions_?!'

'We all knew that the Emperor had joined the Great Game,' said Ashur-Kai, his hand reaching out to his pupil's shoulder in a rare display of brotherhood. 'The light of the Astronomican scours entire regions of the Eye, and His voice has been added to the Empyrean's choir. In many ways, it is easy to understand why the ignorant masses of the Imperium would think Him to be a God – and in others, it is difficult to argue that He _isn't_ one. The Word Bearers made that case once, arguing that any being of such power and apparent immortality was a god whether it admitted it or not. It seems the Imperials took advantage of the Emperor's silence to force the issue.'

'This revelation is … _unsettling_ …,' said Sanakht after a deep breath, 'but it doesn't change anything in the grand scheme. Certainly not for us, not _here_. If anything, it makes our cause even more important. The Illuminated Empire is the only hope for Mankind to avoid wallowing in ignorance for millennia before facing a slow, agonizing extinction. It is more important than ever that we be prepared to face the armies of the Youngest God … though I suppose Slaanesh isn't the youngest of the Pantheon anymore, now.'

'Indeed,' followed Ahriman before anyone could react to Sanakht's poor jest. 'I understand that this is troubling news for all of us. But it is the truth, and we do not hide from the truth. We accept it, and we adapt – and if we _can't_ , then we _change_ it. The Imperium worships the Emperor as a god; that is the truth. When we have conquered the galaxy and brought back the ideals for which we bled during the Great Crusade, we will change that. But we cannot do that if we fall to Fulgrim's host. Put your shock behind you, brothers, and let us focus on the matter at hand. Forrix, are the other warbands prepared to face off against the Third Legion ?'

The others were grateful for the change of subject – many of them would spend sleepless nights contemplating the dreadful implications of Amon's revelations more deeply, but for now they had other concerns. The sole Iron Warrior of the group advanced closer to the room's center. Forrix was here as the Warsmith's representative. The Fourth Legion warlord had become the leader of the other Legion warbands who had joined the Illuminated Empire, taking the position through sheer force of will and the strength of his own troops. No other warlord among the Fifteenth Legion's allies commanded nearly as many troops or held as much personal power as him. Facing off against Mortarion and surviving had propelled the Warsmith even further along the Path to Glory, and many believed it was only a matter of time before he shed off the remaining shreds of his mortality – though what he would then become was anybody's guess.

'The fleet has been repaired from the damage it took against the Death God' forces,' began Forrix. 'We haven't received new reinforcements from Artek-Ker – Kelbor-Hal is still fighting off the daemonic incursion by the scions of the War God. The Warsmith has established a clear chain of command, and we have managed to prevent infighting from going overboard. We are ready.'

'Pass on my thanks to the Warsmith,' said Ahriman before turning his attention to the two who were quite possibly the most dangerous individuals on all of Sortiarus right now – after Ahriman himself. 'Khayon, Bile, have all of our lost brothers been returned to life ?'

'Yes,' replied Khayon, calming himself with a visible effort. 'I brought the last one's spirit into his cloned body a few hours ago. Like all the others, I examined him for any signs of changes or possession, but it seems the Rubric protected his soul while he was incorporeal. _Also_ like the others, he doesn't remember anything between his death and his resurrection – he thought the Death Guard were still besieging us, and had to be forced to remain on his bed. Our brothers are still examining all of them, to make sure nothing else came back along with them. I have to say … without Bile's help, I wouldn't have been able to do it. I am no Apothecary, but those who worked with him on the collection of genetic material and recreation of the lost's bodies were very impressed.'

'I was merely fulfilling my side of our alliance,' said Bile, a corpse-like smile plastered on his grandfatherly face. 'It was an interersting experience in any case.'

'Good,' nodded the Arch-Sorcerer. 'Sanakht, how are our conquering hosts faring ?'

'More worlds continue to submit to the Illuminated Empire,' said the swordsman, who had been appointed as overseer of the various warlords who had left Sortiarus carrying the banner of the Fifteenth Legion's new dominion.

He raised his right hand, and three-dimensional map of this region of the Eye of Terror appeared in the air. It showed the systems closest to Sortiarus, most of whom already bore the emblem of the Thousand Sons. Other floating symbols showed the position of the several warhosts that had departed the Planet of the Sorcerers soon after Magnus. While the Thousand Sons had kept the immense majority of their forces near Sortiarus, they still needed to expand their influence, lest they spend the rest of their lives merely fighting off one attack after another. All manners of champions had been chosen to lead these armies – sons of Magnus, warlords from other Legions, and even a few mortals who had proven their worth to the Fifteenth. Like the Expeditionary Fleets of the Great Crusade, these armies journeyed through the Eye of Terror, bringing daemon worlds into the fold of the Illuminated Empire through diplomacy or conquest. There were less than twenty at the moment, but each of them was a powerful warband in its own right, and they also served as an informal first line of defense against the many powers that jealoused the rise of the Thousand Sons. Most groups seeking to attack the Thousand Sons would cross them before reaching Sortiarus – but most groups weren't lead by a Daemon Primarch, for which the sons of Magnus were grateful.

'I just received a report from Abelardus through the _nuntius_ ,' continued Sanakht, referring to the infernal contraptions that allowed the Exalted Sorcerer to keep in touch with the warhosts without the usual interferences of the Eye of Terror – most of them, anyway. 'The Merciless has captured another one of the Dark Mechanicum's forge-world. He sends his regards, Ahriman.'

Abelardus the Merciless, son of Lorgar and Captain of the Seventeenth Legion, was one of the most successful warlords employed by the Thousand Sons to expand the Illuminated Empire. He had come to Sortiarus after a confrontation with Erebus had ended badly for him and he had been forced to flee. When Argel Tal had been freed, he had volunteered to bring the Bound Angel to Sicarius, but Ahriman had decided his talents could be best used elsewhere. Now the Merciless led an army made up of mostly mortal troops – cultists and soldiers from Regiments he had personally shaped during the last fifty years of the Great Crusade, after Lorgar's Pilgrimage. His contacts among the Nine Legions, forged during his frequent visits to them during that same period, allowed him to bring worlds into the fold through diplomacy nearly as often as his armies did through force.

'Argel Tal must have reached Sicarius by now,' noted Ahriman. 'We might need to recall Abelardus later and send him there to learn the situation. Ashur-Kai, any new report on the coming attack ?'

After the return of the _Tlaloc_ to Sortiarus and the end of Mortarion's siege, Ashur-Kai had become the leader of a circle of Corvidae seers. With Ahriman's responsibilities growing since Magnus' departure, it had fallen to the White Seer to lead the efforts in searching the tides of Fate for information on the oncoming attack. Even with the boost to their abilities granted by the Rubric, such was the nature of life in the Eye of Terror that any prediction carried a lot of warnings attached to it. Still, the Thousand Sons had always known the value of the Corvidae, even when their powers had been at their lowest – such as during the civil war, after the fall of Prospero.

'The tides of the Eye still block our vision,' began the White Seer, his expression a mask of contained anger at this continued failure. 'We cannot perceive anything beyond the limits of the Prosperine Dominion, save for the gathering of the Powers aligned against us. Fulgrim is coming, that much we know, but where he will strike, we cannot predict.'

'The Phoenician will not bother himself with the other worlds of the Dominion,' guessed Akhor'menet. 'His pride won't allow him to waste time on minor targets, not when he can come right at us. The … _unique_ nature of space travel in the Eye makes the normal strategic considerations behind attacking the core of an enemy's realm irrelevant.'

'Indeed,' confirmed Ashur-Kai, the most experienced Warp navigator among them. 'With the will of a Daemon Primarch driving them through the storms, the fleet of our enemies could appear directly at the border of this system with barely any warning.'

'And what of Magnus ?' asked Sanakht, looking straight at Ahriman. 'Where is our father ?'

While his brothers and cousins prepared the defenses of Sortiarus for war against the Third Legion, none of them could do anything to defeat Fulgrim if the Phoenician took to the field. Ahriman alone had displayed the power to take on a Daemon Primarch before, and it had fallen to him to prepare countermeasures against the lord of the Emperor's Children. The most obvious of these measures, besides consulting the Necroteuch for clues as to how banish the Phoenician, had been to try and bring Magnus back before Fulgrim arrived. But the same disturbances that blocked Ashur-Kai's sight had also blocked Ahriman's attempts to reach out to his distant gene-sire. The Arch-Sorcerer shook his head, and they all understood.

'Fulgrim's arrogance has only grown since he was elevated by the Dark Prince,' he said, 'and this has made him craven. He would not tolerate even the possibility of defeat. We can assume that if he attacks us, it will be because he knows our father won't be here to fight him directly.'

'Which begs the question,' pressed Sanakht, 'could _he_ have something to do with our Primarch's absence ? It has been months since Magnus left for Medrengard. Surely he could be back by now.'

'Maybe,' admitted Ahriman, sounding as frustrated as his brother by their lack of information, but doing a better job of hiding it. He was the leader – the Legion Master in all but name. He could not afford to ever seem anything less than in total control. 'In any case, we cannot rely on our father swooping in and saving the day. Ctesias, Akhor'menet. How goes the work on the Pyramid ?'

'Almost complete,' reported Akhor'menet, who led the Ascended in the great work taking place deep in Sortiarus' deserts, under heavy guard against intrusion by the wandering Neverborn and savage mutant tribes. 'The Ascended have started to work without needing my guidance – I think the Pyramid itself is directing them now, though whether that is a good sign or not, I cannot say.'

' _I_ certainly can,' said Ctesias, 'and I say it is a good sign. The Pyramid is our best chance of besting Fulgrim and showing the rest of the Eye that we are strong enough to take on a rival Daemon Primarch without running to our father for help. To do that, it _must_ be a Power of its own, and here, as in everywhere in the galaxy, all Powers have wills of their own. Do not worry – it can be controlled. The bindings I inscribed upon it are holding, and my disciples are adding more as it grows. The only problem that matters is that of the keystone, and you said you would prepare it yourself, Ahriman. I hope you are ready, because by my calculations, the Pyramid should be complete in less than a month – and you know how time tend to flows here, especially around power such as this. For all we know, it could be completed by now.'

'Very well,' replied Ahriman. 'Do not worry, Ctesias – all is ready on my end. Give my praise to the Ascended – we could not do this without them.'

'I would very much like to study these "Ascended",' Bile chimed in. 'Their genetic stability, their enormous psychic potential, the conditions in which they evolved, all are … _fascinating._ '

'You will not get close to the children of Al'Kyreh, flesh-wright,' declared Akhor'menet, his body language and expression the very epitome of politness even as his aura announced to all present that he would flay the Clonelord alive if he got his hands anywhere near the Exalted Sorcerer's subjects.

'Then we are ready,' concluded Ahriman. 'Thanks you all. Return to your duties. Except you, Khayon – we must talk, you and I.'

One by one, the other lords departed – some by teleporting away, others by going out to the platforms where their gunships awaited. Soon only Ahriman and Khayon remained, the Necromancer's faithful wolf slinking into her master's shadow, sensing this was a private matter. She could still hear everything, spoken aloud or transmitted by telepathy, but Ahriman appreciated the effort from such a creature. For several seconds, there was an uncomfortable silence.

'You are still troubled over the matter Amon raised,' said Ahriman. 'This … worship of the Emperor as a god by the Imperium. Yet I sense there is more to your unease than mere fury over this betrayal of the Great Crusade's ideals.'

'Yes,' admitted Khayon. 'Remember, Ahzek : Horus turned against the Imperium because he believed it was the Emperor's plan to be enthroned as a god, to rule over Mankind while it slowly withered away, abandoning the species in His quest for divinity. He was shown visions of this future by the Chaos Gods, and it convinced him to betray our grandsire. But if these visions were brought about precisely by his rebellion … then he was deceived – we were _all_ deceived – by the Powers.'

'You and I may refuse to worship Tzeentch,' Khayon continued, 'but many in the Legion have begun to do so – and we all know that we are bound to him. Those of us who do not openly pay hommage to the Changing God still bear his mark, no matter how unwillingly. It is the price our father paid to save us from the Wolves. Our empire, our dream of illumination, it is all built upon the support of an entity that thrives on betrayal and deceit. Do you see my point ? So far we have been able to keep the Architect of Fate on our side, but that will not last forever. There is no consistency in the Warp. I have spoken with Ctesias, and learned much as I brought back our brothers' souls from the Rubric's embrace. I saw the board on which our lives play out, and the things that look down upon us from their places of power. Our father once protected us at the Court of Change, preventing us from being discarded and replaced. But now his throne stands empty, and for all the power we wield, the Lords of Change are starting to cast glances in our direction, wondering what might yet be, what other force might replace us as Tzeentch's champions.'

'I know,' admitted Ahriman. 'Lorgar said the same to me when we went to Sicarius. He … he said that _I_ was destined to take our father's place in the Court of Change, to protect the Legion from the machinations of the Warp while Magnus led us in this reality. And the … other changes I have been going through also seem to confirm his words. Nature abhors a vacuum, and it seems that so does the Great Ocean. The Rubric tore Magnus from the Great Game, giving him purpose again beyond the lures of the Court of Change, and for better or worse, _I_ am the Rubric. It would make a certain amount of sense for me to replace our father. I talked about this with Magnus before he left, and he acknowledged the danger. But we have a plan, Khayon, one I cannot share with you, for as you said – we are all bound to the God of Change. It's ironic, really – we can loosen the chains of others, but never break our own. For all our pride in our power, in the end, it will be others who ...'

Both Exalted Sorcerers suddenly froze, and looked up, staring at the exact same point as tens of thousands of Sorcerers and psykers across Sortiarus. All had felt the sudden arrival of a new power, proudly announcing its coming to the Sea of Souls with the psychic equivalent of a clarion choir.

'They are here,' whispered Ahriman.

* * *

AN : well, it's been a long time, but that chapter is finally complete. I was working on the next part of the Siege of Terathalion for the last few days, and it should be up soon.

Abelardus the Merciless was created by Night stalker on spacebattles, as part of the small contest I set up to let readers create one of the Fifteenth Legion's conquering armies. He won't appear in person in the story yet - after all, he is far away, and the action is taking place at Sortiarus right now. But he will, in time.

At first, this chapter was supposed to be a recap of the preparations of the Thousand Sons before the attack of the Slaaneshi worshipers. But then inspiration struck, combined with the memory of an excellent scene in the book _Black Legion_ by ADB, and I realized that with Ahriman's fragments bringing in servants from all across the Imperium's history, the Thousand Sons would learn the truth of the Ecclesiarchy long before the Traitor Legions did in canon.

In most Warhammer fiction, the disdain of the Chaos Marines for the worship of the God-Emperor is obvious - they call him the Corpse-God, after all. But ADB was the first author, I think, to consider what it must have been like when the warriors of the Nine Legions first _learned_ about the rise of the Imperial Cult. And as I wrote the reactions of my council, I realized that there were far greater implications that I could weave into my story - which is why this chapter is titled "The Great Betrayal". Most of you probably expected some kind of sudden twist, perhaps Bile turning against the Fifteenth Legion or another trusted ally stabbing them in the back. But no - the betrayal is that of the Dark Gods upon Horus and all his followers, and it has already happened. And, more importantly, the Dark Gods have already won. They have successfully accomplished their goal - the Emperor's dream is dead, and no one will ever be able to resurrect it. Mankind's salvation, if it comes at all, will need to be forged in a new direction.

And perhaps - just perhaps - Magnus' plan to that end will succeed ... But first, the Illuminated Empire must face the displeasure of the Youngest God. Between Fulgrim and Erebus' schemes and the Thousand Sons' plans for defense, who will prove worthy of victory ? We shall see ...

Zahariel out.


	41. The Sixfold Strike

Aboard the warship _Dreadful Blade_ , a cruiser of the Eighth Legion, Magos Itrifex suddenly stood still, his mecha-dendrites stopping their work on the vessel's immense plasma reactors. His aids looked at him with concern, but he soon began to move again, though not to resume his duties. Instead, each of his mecha-dendrites unfolded to reveal the weapon concealed within and opened fire, killing all nine of his assistants in a single blow. Then, Itrifex returned to working on the reactors, overriding safety protocols and deactivating alarms. Half an hour later, the _Dreadful Blade_ detonated, taking with it over a hundred Night Lords and thirty thousand human slaves and sending pieces of wreckage all over its squadron of the defensive fleet that the Warsmith had gathered to meet the Third Legion's host. Magos Itrifex, as the closest to the reactor, was the first to die.

On one of the _Gift of Thot's_ docks, Jekar Kilies stopped in his patrol pattern and looked up, staring at some distant point beyond the metal ceiling. Before his squadmates could ask him what was wrong, and just before the alarms started blaring in response to the Emperor's Children's arrival, Jekar pulled a detonator out of his jacket and activated it. The explosives he wore under his uniform of a Sixteenth Legion's auxiliary trooper erupted into a ball of fire, as did the other charges he had planted across the space station over the last few months. New alarms were added to the chorus, and in their Silver Towers, the Ninefold Keepers – including the resurrected ones – looked down upon the domain they were sworn to protect, saw the damage, and knew failure and shame. They cast their minds across the station, searching for the cause, calming the minds of their servants and directing their efforts to contain the fires and prevent the damage from spreading. They searched for the follow-up attack that was sure to come, but none manifested itself, and so did Jekar's death prevent the Exalted Sorcerers from joining the first phase of the battle against the Slaaneshi armada.

Within the city-fortress of Kel'Nayer, on Sortiarus' southern hemisphere, the Thrall Wizard Baptismus Novakov suddenly lurched in the middle of his summoning circle, under the widened eyes of his peers. His hands reached to his chest as he tried to speak, but the words would not leave his lips. Then, his body exploded in a deluge of gore, and a thing born of ancient nightmares emerged into reality, all black, slicky carapace, sharp talons, and an eyeless, elongated face. The other members of the summoning circle died in seconds, and the unbalance of the energies they had been manipulating spread out to the other circles of Kel'Nayer, breaking the delicate balance of powers and allowing wild, unbound daemons to manifest. Mere moments later, Astartes and mortals were fighting off a daemonic incursion within their own fortress. The Thousand Sons among them burned with quiet, dignified anger as they blasted daemons to bits. They vowed to find out who had sabotaged the complex wards that were supposed to prevent that exact thing from happening.

Under the surface of Al'Kyreh, the city of the Ascended, the Thousand Sons had dug many cells, where they kept the abominations bred by the population's accelerated evolution. Only the warriors with the most resilient of minds were allowed in these lightless halls, for even contained as it was, the power of the caged genetic horrors could warp all but the strongest psyche. Elyras Terken, son of the Seventeenth Legion, twitched as he passed before the cell of one of the most dangerous specimens. His mind screamed silently as another sentience raised his right arm and forced him to rip the door out, releasing the captive. No sooner had the obstacle been removed that the presence vanished, leaving Elyras alone, facing the freed monster. He died twelve seconds later, eleven of those spent running from the thing he had unwillingly unleashed. Soon, other containment cells were breached, and the Ascended were facing a full-blown riot, with their twisted kindred emerging from the depths to wreak their hateful revenge upon those who had cast them aside.

Amidst a forest of bone-trees and crystal plants, far from any of Sortiarus' settlements, a bestial warlord woke from his slumber, roused by some deep and previously unknown instinct. Fragments of memories from his previous life rose to the surface of his mind, when he had been a scholar of the Primordial Truth come to Sortiarus in search of forbidden lore. Before the power of the Planet of the Sorcerers had changed him into the three-meters tall, bull-headed beast he had become. He cast back his animal head and brayed to the shifting heavens, and around him the thousands of beastmen and monsters that had rallied to his banner answered in kind. The Minotaur did not know why, but he felt the burning, unquenchable desire to kill and destroy – but not his own followers. Rather, he looked into the distance, to the lights of the city where he had been studying the scrolls spared the destruction of Prospero, before his mind had broken under the strain of the revelations they contained. With a grimace of hate, he began to charge, followed by the thunder of his horde.

In the Nameless City built around the Tower of the Cyclops, the capital of the Thousand Sons upon the Planet of the Sorcerers that bore no name mortal minds could comprehend, a man covered in rags rose to his feet. He had been sitting at a street corner, and the passerbys had ignored him – never wise to disturb anyone on a world such as Sortiarus, where only the most awful and terrible things were as they seemed. He spoke the True Name of the daemon whose heart had replaced his own before he had journeyed to the Thousand Sons' homeworld aboard a renegade Navy frigate, and drew it forth from the abyss. In a few seconds, his body transmuted, changed beyond recognition by the new presence within, and Zarakynel, the Angel of Despair, greatest of Slaanesh's Keepers of Secrets, laughed its marvellous and horrible laughter, plunging nearby souls into madness as it rose its unholy blade, _Souleater_ , in mocking salute to Magnus' empty Tower.

In the _Destiny's Hand's_ sanctum, the last soul-flask dropped from Erebus' fingers and crashed onto the metal deck, shattering into countless fragments that soon vanished into the aether, joining the five previous ones. Despite all that he had managed to accomplish in the last minutes, it galled Erebus that only seven of his agents had managed to pass through the Thousand Sons' guard. He had sent _dozens_ of them, each with their soul removed and bound to a different flask, allowing them to function and appear normal to any psychic inspection through a very complex ritual. Each of these agents had been a seed for a particular design, equiped with the tools and knowledge required to bring it to fruition – he had spent _years_ of relative time on Sicarius, preparing for the inevitable.

But even if the sons of Magnus had not managed to discover his trick, they had still detected the treacherous intent of almost every single one of them and destroyed them long before they could reach their intended places. Erebus had hoped to be able to cripple Sortiarus' defenses, but instead had to limit himself to merely shaking them and throw them off balance. With any luck, it would be enough to prove his worth to Fulgrim – without appearing to steal the Phoenician's glory. He supposed that, in a way, this too was the Gods' providence looking after him. Six was, after all, the sacred number of Slaanesh, who was the patron of this holy Crusade to put the Thousand Sons in their place and restore balance in the Great Game of Chaos.

Erebus forced himself to stand, barely able to supress a grimace of pain as his muscles protested. The Dark Apostle had spent the last weeks of the journey to Sortiarus in this chamber, immobile, his mind reaching out to the soul contained within the flasks his acolytes reverently placed within his hands at his silent commands. That had taken its toll, even on a Space Marine's body, as had the demands of the ritual. Many of the wounds that had slowly begun to heal since his confrontation with Argel Tal had opened again, and blood leaked from his ceramite war-plate. The acolytes would need to die now, of course – he could not allow anyone to see him so weak and live to tell the tale. In the Eye of Terror, reputation was everything, especially in the exalted circles where Erebus walked. Their lives would serve the Gods' purpose, their souls expended to renew his own strength.

Several hours later, Erebus stood on the bridge of his warship, watching through the occulus.

'First blood to me,' he whispered, staring at the image of Sortiarus, pondering what other great deeds he would commit during the war he had begun.

* * *

AN : And so begins the war between the Third and Fifteenth Legion - with a treacherous and cowardly blow. Remember not to underestimate Erebus' power and spite, ye who would play at the Great Game ...

The next chapter will focus on the proper war, with the armies coming into contact in the system of Sortiarus before the war moves on to the surface - and I refuse to consider that a spoiler, because come on. Of course it was going to. In the meantime, I am pleased to report that the writing of the Siege of Terathalion continues apace, though I took a quick break from it to write this instead. The next part will contain very important information though, both to the ongoing conflict but also to the future direction of the story itself, and I am _not_ going to rush it and risk messing it up.

Don't forget to tell me what you thought of this chapter, and what you hope to see in the future. In fact, if you have any idea about what else Fulgrim could hold up his sleeve, I would very much like you to share that with me, as I am currently holding a single card that I am hesitant to play. This fic is growing beyond what I expected (it just passed the 100k words without the author notes), but it's still very fun to write !

One last thing, for my ffnet readers : there is now a version of the "If the Emperor Had a Text-to-Speech Device" for the Roboutian Heresy universe, on spacebattles. Quite a funny read, and I am given to understand the authors are going to do a Q&A soon, so ... If you hurry up, you just might cut it !

Zahariel out.


	42. The Fate of Angels

The Slaaneshi armada tore through the outer defenses of Sortiarus. The void-fortresses and artillery plateforms installed at the system's edge were ripped to pieces by the fleet's guns. The most unfortunate among them were instead boarded by the Emperor's Children, their crew captured by the sons of Fulgrim for their twisted amusement. Soon, the fleet's advance was preceded by a chorus of vox-transmissions, the screams of the Third Legion's captives broadcast on all frequencies. But the fleet arrayed around the _Gift of Thot_ was led by the Warsmith's iron will, and its members would not succumb to such cheap scare tactics. In fact, the Night Lords within its ranks openly laughed at the attempt, though their laughter was made bitter by the recent loss of the _Dreadful Blade_ and the confusion it had sowed within the defending fleet.

Aboard his flagship, the Warsmith coordinated the efforts of the fleet to contain the disorder caused by the _Dreadful Blade_ 's catastrophic demise, while also reconfiguring the fleet in light of the chaos spreading on the _Gift of Thot._ The Warsmith's previous battle plans had relied on the support of the Ninefold Keepers, but they were busy now purging the domain entrusted to them by their Primarch, and none of them were answering the Warsmith's transmissions. Though this lack of respect angered the Warsmith, he took it in stride – he would not show weakness to the Fifteenth Legion by begging for help before the battle was even joined. On the bridge of the twisted void leviathan that served as the Warsmith's flagship, Ignis stood, watching all and missing nothing. His battle-automata, Credence, stood at his side, silent but equally watchful, ready to react at a heartbeat's notice to protect its master from any threat. The Master of Ruin's mind was divided, part of it directing the work of his disciples spread out across Sortiarus. It took a great effort of will for Ignis to remain in contact with his students, for the Warp was echoing with the malevolent presence of Fulgrim, his cloying corruption pressing at the minds of all those psychically gifted.

Soon battle was joined in the void, as Fulgrim's fleet fought to seize the stable passage through the nine suns' gravitic field. Daemonships and Legion vessels clashed with one another, while drop-pods and other transports descended upon the _Gift of Thot_ , seeking to take advantage of the anarchy reigning there. Emperor's Children fought against the Dark Mechanicum forces, and the Ninefold Keepers, finally realizing they had been deceived and there was no follow-up strike coming, cursed themselves for fools and focused their efforts on cleansing the Third Legion troops from the station. Around the _Gift_ , the armada of the Illuminated Empire held on, the tactics of the Warsmith proving a match for the dark genius directing the Slaaneshi host.

But just like Mortarion had been willing to sacrifice the lives of countless followers to ensure a few reached the surface of the Planet of the Sorcerers, so did the Phoenician have a plan to bypass Sortiarus' greatest defense. Erebus' sixthfold strike had spread confusion and disorder across the planet, but it had also opened channels through the Warp, gateways through which the children of Slaanesh were pouring to taste the unique sensations that could be found only on the homeworld of their foe. Deep within the _Pride of the Emperor_ , the Phoenician performed a terrible ritual, calling upon the unholy knowledge his patron has bestowed upon him since the days Fulgrim's noble mind had been broken by his possession by the Keeper of Secrets that now screamed from within the portrait hanging in _La Fenice_ , hidden behind a heavy curtain made of Astartes flayed skin.

As the ritual reached completion, hundreds of Noise Marines suddenly vanished across the fleet, without warning even to themselves. These warriors found themselves suddenly on Sortiarus itself, scattered between the different incursions caused by Erebus' sorcery. Despite their surprise and the horrible pain of this sudden teleportation, powerful enough to crush through the arcane protections of the world, the sons of Fulgrim quickly recovered, and set about prosecuting their war against the Fifteenth Legion. During their transit, for one timeless moment, they had heard Slaanesh's own melody of madness, and their zeal was increased a hundredfold as they sought to recreate it within Sortiarus' half-reality. In Kel'Nayer, they walked through the wards set to keep the infernal hordes at bay and murdered the Sorcerers keeping them up, giving the Neverborn hosts free reign. In Al'Kyreh, they took advantage of the city's lords' distraction in the depths to rampage, slaughtering the population, revelling in the psychic cries of agony of the Ascended – a music the likes of which they had never heard before, which inspired them to new heights. In the wilderness, they appeared amidst the hosts of beastmen crackled in Warp-lightning, and their hymns of excess drove the primitive beings into a frenzy as they charged toward distant towers and pyramids. And in the nameless city at the foot of Magnus' tower, they joined Zarakynel and its host of Daemonettes and other Slaaneshi horrors, their artificially enhanced sensations feeding the daemons' unnatural strength. There, whilst wreaking destruction upon the great city, they sang the praises of the Angel of Despair with unholy harmonics that only weakened the barriers between realms further, allowing more daemons of the Dark Prince's court to manifest onto the Planet of the Sorcerers.

But the Thousand Sons were not idle. A scream of terrible fury and outrage echoed, loud enough to surpass the choir of the Noise Marines. Reality tore apart in the streets, and Iskandar Khayon, Exalted Sorcerer and Necromancer of the Fifteenth Legion, emerged, surrounded by a host of his warriors, each shrouded in psychic fire. Khayon had been sent by Ahriman himself, with one simple mission – remove the threat of the Angel of Despair by any means necessary. The Arch-Sorcerer had other, more pressing duties, and Khayon's mastery of the daemonic arts had been proved time and again. He was to deal with Zarakynel, as the first part of Ahriman's plan to teach the Dark Prince not to interfere in the affairs of the Illuminated Empire.

The Thousand Sons fought against the host of Slaanesh, while Khayon hacked his way through the tide of infernal flesh toward his target. He wielded a new weapon, a sword forged by the half-daemon smiths of Sortiarus, in distant mountaints that spewed Warp-fire without pause. It glinted with silvery light, and its makers had imprisoned within it the screams of betrayed gods as their faithful were turned to the worship of Tzeentch and they vanished from existence, reduced to nothing more than memories. In the hands of a normal Astartes, the weapon was a supremely crafted instrument of death – within Khayon's, it was something else entirely. Seers who had looked upon the weapon, be they mortal or Astartes, had wept bitter tears of pain as its power burned their eyes, and spoke in hushed whispers of the destiny that might bind it to the warrior who wielded it. Khayon, who cared nothing for the proclamations of prophets, called the weapon _Itzica_ – Freedom.

' **Khayon !'** called the Angel of Despair when it saw the Necromancer striding toward it, its voice filled with delight and mockery. **'You are late, my friend. I have been waiting for you !'**

The black-clad Exalted Sorcerer advanced in silence, as if his earlier scream had exhausted his voice. The Keeper of Secrets hissed at this scorn, and strode forth to meet its would-be executioner. _Souleater_ danced in its hands, darting this way and that, skewering and beheading Sorcerers, all the while screeching in frustration as their essences were denied to its ravenous hunger by the power of the Rubric. Finally, _Souleater_ and _Itzica_ met, and the shock of the two great weapons' clash spread out around Greater Daemon and Exalted Sorcerer in a wave of force that sent lesser beings flying.

' **You who have denied death,'** continued Zarakynel, smiling as it looked down on Khayon, **'what will it take to break you, I wonder ? How many new exquisite sensations and torments will I be able to visit upon you before your hold on your sanity break ?'**

Khayon remained silent, and with a snarl, Zarakynel pulled back its blade and struck again, only to be parried once more. For several minutes, the two Lords of Chaos duelled, Zarakynel's preternatural speed and reflexes matched against the instincts, training, and psychically enhanced physiology of Iskandar. Each time their weapons met, there was a flash of bright light that blinded mortal eyes and burned those of daemons, and soon there was a wide circle around the two duellists, while their armies continued to fight all around them. Zarakynel screamed in frustration at Khayon's continued silence, its goading failing to cause the slightest response. Finally, it spat one more provocation, in a final attempt to rile up the Necromancer :

' **After I have killed you, I will eat your sister's heart, and keep her soul as my pet for the rest of eternity. Her screams shall haunt your every moment as your spirit is shackled to the feet of Slaanesh's throne, until she is remade into the Dark Prince's own image !'**

 _Itzica_ flashed just as Khayon's aura flared, the contained fires of his wrath suddenly overwhelming his control. Time seemed to slow around the Necromancer, and the sword shattered the _Souleater_ before running through the chest of the Angel of Despair. Despite being much smaller than his foe, Khayon managed to force it on the ground, where he towered above it, still silent.

' **I am a scion of the Dark Prince,'** laughed Zarakynel, ecstatic at the sensation of its own innards being pierced through. **'I am eternal, little one. No matter how powerful you might be, you remain a jumped-up monkey, and I … am glory manifest, Slaanesh's greatest creation ! You** ** _cannot_** **kill me.** ** _Nothing_** **can kill me ! I will have your sister's soul, in the end !'**

'What can be done,' said Khayon, his voice supremely calm as he spoke at last, ' _can be undone._ '

The Necromancer had returned the souls of his brothers from the Rubric's embrace, using the utmost care not to damage them before binding them to restored or cloned bodies. In comparison, what he now sought to accomlish was almost pathetically easy, for he needed only destroy, not preserve. Using _Itzica_ as a focus, he sent his mind directly into the marass of decadence and excess that made up the foul thing passing for the Greater Daemon's soul. Threads of emotions and sins flickered before his psychic gaze, and, one by one, he ripped them apart, casting them back into the Warp. Zarakynel screamed, knowing true pain for the first time in its immortal existence.

Even as he rose, his work done, Khayon knew he had not truly destroyed the Angel of Despair. The Neverborn still lived on in the memories of thousands of debased cults throughout the galaxy, and in time that would be enough for it to re-form in the Warp, pulling its scattered pieces together. But this would take a long, long time, far much more than if Khayon had merely defeated it. And during that time, Slaanesh would be denied the services of his favoured harlot.

'Such is the fate of all _angels_ here,' spat Khayon at the rapidly dissolving remains of his foe.

The Noise Marines had fallen disturbingly silent, staring at Khayon with a new emotion behind their stitched-open eyes. Reality had finally found a way past the madness that consumed their souls – they had seen him unmake one of their patron god's chosen. Now their diseased minds were wondering what he could do to _them_ , and they knew fear. Even the Daemonettes and the Fiends were fleeing from him, screeching in horror and outraged terror as they ran, still graceful, even in their desperate flight. Khayon's Sorcerers gunned them down with enchanged bolt shells and psychic bolts, barely a handful managing to escape them. These stragglers would not last long within this city, where nearly every soul held some terrible, hidden power.

Khayon nodded in satisfaction. He had fulfilled his duty – the city was secure, or would soon be. In any case, his presence here was no longer needed. Other Slaaneshi forces had reached the surface of Sortiarus, but no other had dared to come close to this place. Even the self-obsessed slaves of the Dark Prince dreaded the possibility of Magnus suddenly returning to his Tower, and the terrible wrath he would unleash upon any invaders close at hand if that happened. Looking upon the cyclopean edifice, Khayon could not help but doubt, and think the treacherous question :

 _Where are you, father ?_

* * *

AN : Behold, it's alive ! AALIIIIIIVE !

It's been some time since I last updated this story, hasn't it ? Sorry about that. I was focusing on the Siege of Terathalion for the last few days, until yesterday when I suddenly wrote 90% of that part all in one go. One day I will master the workings of my own writing mind, but until then, I remain at its mercy.

So, that's Zarakynel dealt with. But the war against the Third Legion is only beginning. Fulgrim has many more weapons to wield in the Great Game between Slaanesh and Tzeentch. As before, if you have ideas for the most terrible instruments the Phoenician could have found or created, don't hesitate to tell me about them. I just finished reading the new Death Guard Codex, and I have to wonder - is there even a plan at Games Workshop for such a codex to be ever made for the Emperor's Children ? Somehow, I doubt it. Perhaps we can all use this story to make one together - or at least, suggest units that could be put into one. I look forward to your suggestions !

And, as usual, please tell me what you thought of this chapter and what you hope to see in the next ones. I only have the vaguest of outlines planned for this, so I can always integrate new ideas. I am especially searching for inspiration for more "Fragments of Ahriman" short stories - I am thinking about writing one title "The Call of Ahriman" at some point.

Zahariel out.


	43. The Eyes of Chaos

Atop his Silver Tower, sitting cross-legged at the center of the structure's highest room, shielded from the chaos of the war by powerful wards, Ahriman dreamt. His mind wandered far from his body, deep into the Great Sea, peering into realms that only the strongest of minds could tolerate.

He dreamt of a primordial garden, of a tree whose branches were heavy with the fruits of Life and Knowledge. He dreamt of a snake, whispering false promises into the ears of the first Humans and turning them from the path of Truth and into evil's thrall. Even as he watched this dramatic representation of Mankind's first contact with Chaos play out, he noticed the shadow in the back of the allegorical scene, lurking outside of the garden's confines, its outline unclear to him.

He dreamt of an long road, paved with white stones stained with blood. On each side of the road stood a row of colossal statues, and as Ahriman walked down the road they stared at him in judgement. Each of the statues was different, wearing a different attire – some were philosophers, others kings, still others were warlords – but they all displayed the same, identical face – his own. He did not know what waited for him at the end of the road, but he could feel reluctance in every step, and a growing sense of dread deep within his soul as he advanced closer to that unseen goal.

He dreamt of the first pyramid ever built by human hands. Hundreds, thousands of small, insignificant silhouettes worked at its construction, driven on by the merciless whips of their overseers. They built without knowing what it was they were creating, following the plans and designs of architects who themselves had but the smallest inkling of the true significance of their creation. Within this mausoleum, the first of its kind, the invisible currents of the Great Sea would be gathered by its primitive architecture, and those interred within would become one with them.

He dreamt of a desert, vast beyond imagining, its sandy dunes seemingly reaching into infinity. He walked that desert, wearing a white robe and using a dry, withered branch as a clutch to help himself make his way. Something was calling to him, in the far, far distance, and he continued to walk, no matter how many times he lost his footing and fell. His thirst felt like there was as much sand in his throat as around him, his limbs were heavy as lead and his mind was numb with exhaustion, yet he kept going, drawn ever onward by that call, as hateful as it was irresistible.

And finally, he dreamt of a tower at the heart of crystal labyrinth, and of a throne atop that tower. He sat upon this throne, and a being cloaked in robes made of every deceit ever designed knelt before him, holding up a golden mask in offering. The mask was exquisitely crafted into an image of Ahriman's own face, and it seemed that the inanimate visage was staring at him in judgement.

' _A face,'_ said the kneeling figure in a chorus of voices, _'for he who shall be faceless.'_

Ahriman woke suddenly, pulled from his meditative trance by the call for war. All across Sortiarus, the forces of the Illuminated Empire battled the hosts of Slaanesh. On some of the fronts, things were going well – but on others, the spawn of the Dark Prince were gaining ground. Despite all his doubts, Ahriman had no choice no but to interrupt his preparations and perform the ritual that would bring the Pyramid's keystone to him immediately. He had delayed too long already, but the Lord of the Rubric, for all his power and wisdom, was still unsure of what the consequences of what he was about to attempt would be – and the last vision of his trance only increased these concerns. But duty to his Legion demanded he perform the ritual, no matter the personal cost he might have to pay.

The Arch-Sorcerer left his Silver Tower, not by a gunship or on one of the disc-shaped daemons of Tzeentch that flocked to his lair, but simply by cutting a passage through the air to where he needed to be. The spirits around the structure wailed at his departure, and their cries did not go unnoticed by those who searched for any clue of Ahriman's activities. A group of such observers was far, far above Sortiarus, in the halls of the _Pride of the Emperor,_ spying upon the Arch-Sorcerer through the sorcery granted unto them by the Dark God Slaanesh. The Gloriana-class warship was in the thick of the space battle raging between the Warsmith's armada and Fulgrim's fleet, its guns firing time and again, crippling and annihilating lesser crafts. For all the Warsmith's skills, he simply did not have anything on his side capable of matching the Legion flagship, and was forced to try and reduce its support until he could bring overwhelming numbers to bear against it. In the last few minutes, the Warsmith had noticed a sudden change in the flow of the battle : the unnatural synchronization the Slaaneshi had displayed so far was fading. Though the Iron Warrior warlord could not know it, this was because the source of the direction had turned his attention elsewhere. Deep within the warship, the sounds of guns firing and shells impacting the hull distant, the ritual that had sent the Emperor's Children to Sortiarus had taken place – and now another feat of sorcery was brewing.

There, in a darkness lit only by torches made from the skulls of torture victims and the unnatural glow of his own being, was Fulgrim himself, resplendent in his battle armor and radiating the dark glory of Slaanesh. The Phoenician watched Ahriman depart his Tower through a vision pool made of the blood and tears of a thousand, six hundred and sixty-six human sacrifices, their souls consumed to grant the artefact the power to pierce Sortiarus' protections. The recipient that held the liquid was made of beautiful gold, encrusted with all manner of jewels arranged in patterns pleasing to the Dark Prince – and causing pain and madness in all those who looked upon it and did not bear his mark upon their souls. The White Naga nodded, his pale lips parting to reveal his needle-pointed fangs, and lifted his gaze from the pool and to the only other figure in the vast room who was not prostrating itself before his majesty. Even Lucius the Eternal, who had been allowed inside this hallowed room in acknowledgement of the special statute the Dark Prince had bestowed upon him, was on his knees, staring at his Primarch and his accomplice with wide, hungry eyes.

' _ **The beggar-thief has finally moved,'**_ said Fulgrim to that mysterious, smaller figure. **_'He is going to the Pyramid. We must act now, while he is exposed and my nephews' work isn't complete.'_**

The silhouette nodded, and spread out arms that were covered in a thick black robe while throwing its head back. The image within the pool changed, showing the construction site of the Pyramid, the Thousand Sons' weapons against the Slaaneshi invasion. Hundreds of the Ascended worked upon it, moving stones into precise position with kinetic power and offering their energy to activate the spells engraved upon them. Nearly three hundred meters in height, the Pyramid was almost completely covered with a smooth sheet of silver, the surface of which was covered with engraved Prosperine script that glowed faintly with a ghastly blue light.

The site of the Pyramid was defended by hundreds of Astartes gathered from the warbands that the Thousand Sons trusted the most. In an ironic twist, the Sorcerers couldn't defend their greatest weapon themselves. Such was the nature of the Pyramid that, until it was completed, all psykers nearby were drained of their power, their energy called upon by the construction's powerful wards. Only the Exalted Sorcerers themselves were powerful and gifted enough in the Art to resist this draining, and there were far too few of them to defend such an important site on their own. But even one of Magnus' greatest sons was still a threat to be reckoned with.

' _ **The Shepherd is still working on the Pyramid itself,'**_ declared the White Naga, staring back at the pool, which reacted to his scrutiny by focusing its display on Akhor'menet, who stood at the base of the Pyramid, eyes closed, directing the efforts of the circle of Ascended applying the liquid silver upon the stones. **_'But the Infernalist has completed his part of the work … and I think he has noticed us,'_** added the Daemon Primarch, something like amusement in his inhuman voice.

The scrying pool rippled as its display changed once more, showing the wrinkled face of Ctesias, first and greatest of the Fifteenth Legion's daemonists. The old Astartes was glaring upward, seeming right at Fulgrim himself. He raised a hand, and the blood within the pool erupted in eldritch fire as the connection was severed. Fulgrim only laughed, a sound that made even the other abominations kneeling in the room wail in distress and pleasure.

' _ **Yes, he most definitely has. Shall we go, then, my dears ?'**_ he called out to all those gathered, though his gaze was fixed upon the humanoid standing before him across the still burning pool.

The creature reached out, pale hands emerging from dark sleeves and clasping with two of Fulgrim's own proffered hands. The silhouette's own hands seemed comically small in the Daemon Primarch's grip, yet there was nothing amusing about the situation. Power began to course between Fulgrim and his ally, running back and forth as the two of them wove together yet another spell. Together, they had cast the ritual that had brought the Emperor's Children to Sortiarus – now it was time to perform it again, but with vastly different targets. Like before, Fulgrim provided the raw power necessary, calling upon his favour in the Dark Prince's court and shaping it with the knowledge he had torn from the mind of his former tormentor. But it was the hooded figure that weaved the Warp energies into the delicate pattern that would allow them to bypass the aetheral defenses and instabilities of the Planet of the Sorcerers.

As power gathered in the room, Lucius shuddered in anticipation, his mind suddenly filled with images of all that he would do once he was finally allowed to join the battle raging on the planet below. He would find Sanakht, and this time, the swordsman would fall under the Eternal's blade. Part of Lucius wondered if this Necromancer he had heard so much about would be able to resurrect Sanakht once he was done with him. And if such was the case, then how much more fun would he have with this most worthy of adversaries before he finally grew bored ?

Or maybe, with his powers increased by the Rubric, Sanakht would be able to kill Lucius. The Eternal doubted that would happen – when they had last fought, Sanakht had been too honorable to cheat and use his sorcery in their duels. But if there was one thing Lucius had learned in his life, it was that anything could happen on the field of battle. If he were to fall by Sanakht's blade … Would the blessing of Slaanesh work in that case ? Would Sanakht be reduced to another face on Lucius' armor, eternally, silently screaming ? Or would the Rubric protect him from that fate, condemning Lucius himself to oblivion ? So many wondrous possibilities to explore.

Reality bent as un-words were spoken aloud, tearing through the tenuous hold of physical laws on Eyespace. The scar left by the Legionaries' transfer was torn apart once more, and Fulgrim, the mysterious figure, Lucius and the hundreds of gathered Maelat vanished at once, cast through the rift and onto Sortiarus. Lucius' sharpened senses only caught the briefest flicker of vast, unknowable _things_ in the space between realities before he found himself onto solid ground again.

Immediately, the memories of the last time he had stood on Sortiarus returned to Lucius. During the Heresy, he had journeyed here in search of a duellist worthy of fighting, hoping to solve the doubts that had haunted him after his confrontation with Sharrowkyn on Iydris. He had long since cast off the questions his death at the Raven's hands, but still remembered his time on the Planet of the Sorcerers. Now as then, the heavens were aflame with eternal storms, and the very air was charged with psychic energy and the whispers of daemons waiting for the slightest invitation to manifest. The war raging across the world had made these voices more insistent, their hunger increased by the blood being shed as the Third and Fifteenth Legions made war.

In the distance, Lucius could see the Pyramid, and the arrayed forces of the Illuminated Empire. He raised his sword in salute and, with his Primarch's laughter echoing in his soul, he charged forward, his heart pumping with adrenalin and other, less wholesome substances.

* * *

AN : and that's another chapter down. Not much to say this time, I am afraid. Work on the fourth part of the Siege of Terathalion progresses apace, and I think the next chapter of this story should not take nearly as long as this one did.

As usual, if you have questions or something to suggest for the future of this story, don't hesitate to tell me. I have recently been struck by inspiration once more, and now know how this story's endgame will unfold, but I might still change my mind.

Oh, and I guess I might as well make it official : Warband of the Forsaken Sons is on hiatus. Between the Roboutian Heresy, this story, and an original novella on which I am also working, I just don't have the time to write a _fourth_ story at the same time. I am only human, after all, no matter what you might have heard to the contrary from those who have read the Raven Guard Index too many times.

Zahariel out.


	44. The Broken and the Chosen

'To arms, brothers ! The Phoenician is here ! To arms, warriors of the Illuminated Empire !'

Ctesias' call echoed far and wide, amplified by his telepathic abilities. The daemonist had felt the eye of Fulgrim upon the Pyramid – as well as something else, another presence that, in a way, disturbed him even more than the Daemon Primarch's own disgusting aura had. Even as the words left his mouth and mind, he knew that it would barely have any use. Seconds later, the air split apart around the Pyramid, and another army of the Dark Prince arrived onto Sortiarus. The moment it manifested, every Thousand Son on Sortiarus felt a sudden emptiness in their souls, while those few who were among the Pyramid's defenders had to struggle to remain standing. Something vile and terrible was draining away their power, and it took all of their will for them to shield their souls against its terrible hunger. Those who rose and looked upon the coming army were able to get a better understanding of the foe – this was not one single psychic devourer, but hundreds of them, each a wound in the Warp through which the Dark Prince bled their surroundings of psychic energy.

This void hid Fulgrim's location from the Exalted Sorcerers, but every soul on Sortiarus still felt the arrival of the Daemon Primarch. Some felt it as a tender caress on their skin, the ghost of a sensation that sent shivers of pleasure and dread in their souls. Others heard it as a whisper, a promise from another life spoken from far, far away, by allies and enemies long dead. A few sensitives felt it more deeply, and those were the unlucky ones, for their minds were shattered by this glimpse of the Phoenician's true nature. They were left as broken husks, laughing and weeping madly, crying out as they screamed of the doom that had come to the Planet of the Sorcerers. And whether in their Silver Towers or among the fray, the sons of Magnus felt it as a deep violation, an acute sense that the world itself was being _raped_ by Fulgrim's intruding presence.

Among the Maelat, Lucius exalted. Their soul-devouring aura did not affect him, for he was a blessed son of Slaanesh. It _did_ affect the souls trapped within his armor, though, and their wailing was even louder and more pained than usual. Of course, that only made things more pleasant for the swordsman. And so he laughed as he charged toward the lines of Astartes defending the path to the Pyramid. Armors from all Legions save the Fourteenth were in evidence in the warbands aligned against them – even a handful of Emperor's Children, their Legion emblem painted over with various new sigils to mark their change of allegiance. Lucius did not hate these turncoat brothers for their betrayal – had he not changed sides many times himself ? The pursuit of one's passions was paramount, far more important than petty things such as loyalty and honor.

He would still kill them, of course. They were in his way, and he couldn't have that. He accelerated his course, bolt shells flying around him, striking some of the Maelat down but missing him entirely. He hit their lines like a meteor, jumping over the trenches and defenses raised by some industrious boor of the Fourth Legion, and landed right in the middle of them. They were ready, as he had known they would be : their blades were drawn, their bolters aimed. They stood no chance.

He laughed as he cut through the champions of half a dozen Legions. He laughed as he heard them shout his name as they recognized him by his scarred face and the screaming visages on his armor. He could taste their ambition, their desire to slay him and prove their worth to both their divine masters and their sorcerous overlords. He could also taste their doubts, their fear that, even should they prove victorious, they would simply end up as another face screaming endlessly on his wargear. His legend was spreading across the Nine Legions, and Lucius had found it more difficult in recent years to find enemies in the Eye willing to risk the horrible fate of all those who, until now, had managed to best him. That was one of the reasons he had betrayed Bile when Eidolon had come to Harmony, choosing to embrace the Phoenician's return and the war against the Fifteenth.

'Sanakht !' he shouted as he cut and parried, dancing away from the blows of his foe – so _slow_ , so _clumsy._ It was only their number that made this any challenge. He needed _more,_ needed to fight someone _worthy._ 'Where are you, cousin ?! We have business to finish, you and I !'

And all of a sudden, there he was in the melee's midst. Lucius' sword was blocked by a long, rune-engraved blade, held by a warrior in crimson armor. The weapons hissed a pale smoke when their metal touched, as the power within Lucius' Laer sword and that of his opponent's sorcerous blade made contact. Lucius did not recognize the sword – but he recognized the one who held it.

'I am here, cousin,' declared Sanakht, greatest swordsman of the Fifteenth Legion. Without missing a beat, he then stepped back, freed his sword from Lucius', and struck again, this time with his other blade. Lucius parried the blow with ease, knowing Sanakht had never expected it to reach him.

The two swordsmen began to exchange blows while the other Chaos Marines formed a circle around them, unwilling to interfere. All the while, they continued their conversation :

'You should not have come here, Lucius,' declared Sanakht, his voice calm and confident. 'Bile told us of how you betrayed him – he is quite cross with you, and not one you want against you. He told us everything he has planned for you – and let me tell you, I have seen some dreadful things in my time, but none can compare to what he intends to inflict upon you.'

'So you _did_ accept that old monster in your ranks !' replied Lucius, parrying another blow and striking for the sorcerer's throat, only for his attack to be dodged and riposted just as easily. 'I really thought _someone_ in your Legion would have had the moral decency to kill him by now. But I guess in the end, pragmatism supercedes even the Illuminated Empire's lofty ideals, does it not ?'

'Do not speak of things you do not understand, degenerate,' spat Sanakht, a flickering of crimson in his aura revealing his anger at Lucius' accusations. 'Bile has at least the dedication to _building_ something, rather than fight to bring down the efforts of others like a mindless barbarian !'

Before Lucius could point out Sanakht's hypocrisy – verbal barbs could be almost as delightful to inflict as physical injury – the two duelists were interrupted. The circle of Astartes around them was breached, and the twisted Eldar Fulgrim had found on his new daemonic homeworld poured into the hole in the defenders' line. The pale, thin creatures surrounded Lucius and Sanakht, their gaze lingering on the Eternal only momentarily before being drawn irresistibly to the sorcerer.

'Are they not beautiful ?' laughed Lucius. 'They are the Maelat, the Firstborn children of Slaanesh, though not his favored ones ! Are they not adorable ? The true place of the Eldar in the galaxy !'

But Sanakht did not reply to Lucius' call. The Exalted Sorcerer was staggering, his grip on his swords weakening. The presence of the Maelat was draining him, devouring his psychic power, and he was feeling it keenly. Before the Rubric, Sanakht had already been one of the Legion's psychically gifted. Though less powerful than the likes of Ahriman, Amon or Khayon, he had been able to combine his power with his talent at bladeswork in order to rise to the rank of the Legion's champion. The Rubric had allowed him to reach previously undreamt of heights of speed and precision, but now all that power was being wrenched away from him – and it was pure agony.

'NO !' roared Lucius in frustration as he understood what was happening and realized that the challenge he had sought for so long would be denied to him. 'This is not how it's supposed to be !'

The Eternal lashed out with his blade, his anger lessening his skill. The sword cut bloody gashes in Sanakht's armor and flesh, but inflicted no lethal damage. So wild and wide were the blows, Lucius actually cut a few of the closest Maelat, and black, tainted ichor spilled in the air in impossible arcs. But the Eternal's anger also lent him strength, and Sanakht's back crashed onto the ground. Like vultures around a dying lion, the Maelat drew nearer, their proximity increasing Sanakht's agony and preventing him from even getting back on his feet.

'You are worthless,' spat Lucius before turning his back on the downed Exalted Sorcerer in disgust. 'I thought you were a true swordsman, but you are just a fraud ! A witch using his magic to prop up his miserable lack of _true_ skill with a blade ! I won't sully my sword with your blood. Farewell, Sanakht. Perhaps one of the _real_ warriors will prove to be more challenging than you were !'

Lucius stormed off like a petulant child, but Sanakht did not focus on him. He was still surrounded by the Maelat, their soul-devouring hunger pressing at his mind from all directions. He could _feel_ his gift being pulled out of him as the abominations feasted upon his very essence. If not for the Rubric's power woven into his being, he was certain his soul would already have snapped free of his body and been consumed by the ravenous monsters in Eldar form. Had he not known as much about the Dark Prince as he did, perhaps he would have thought that a more merciful fate than his current predicament. But as things were, he simply struggled, desperate to find a way out of this situation. Blackness pressed in, everything faded into agonizing pain …

There was a flash of emerald light, and the sound of broken bones and rent flesh – and then Sanakht's torment eased, and the light of his surroundings reached through his hazed consciousness. A silhouette in blood-drenched armor towered above him, smashing the closest Maelat with a scepter ending with a glowing green skull. The mane of dirty white hair and the mantle of skinned faces of Sanakht's savior revealed his identity : this was Fabius Bile, the Primogenitor, ally of the Fifteenth Legion against the armies of his own Primarch. In his right hand, the Chief Apothecary held the Rod of Torment, and in his left, a needle pistol that unleashed volley after volley of rounds into the ranks of the Slaaneshi host. Around him, a tide of his mutated progeny fought against the Maelat with blades and guns, their savage consciousnesses seemingly immune to the Chaos-touched Eldar's aura of psychic void. But it was Bile's presence, here on the battlefield where the Phoenician himself had come, that shocked Sanakht the most.

'Are … are you not going to run ?' croaked Sanakht. 'This battle … isn't going well for us.'

And in truth, it was not. The Maelat's soul-devouring aura had shaken even the Legionaries gathered by the Illuminated Empire to defend the Pyramid. They had not broken and ran, of course, but the shock of the creatures' aura combined with Lucius' own devastating charge through their ranks had given the advantage to Sortiarus' invaders. Daemons from the Courts of Excess were emerging from broken bodies, drawn by Fulgrim's dark presence and seeking to sate their own unholy hungers. Even with his telepathic abilities reduced to a shadow of what they had been, Sanakht could still feel the confusion, the disorder. The defense of the Pyramid had gone from an ordered confrontation between two armies to a massive free-for-all, where any result was possible. Sanakht would have thought Bile would have fled Sortiarus the moment there appeared to be a chance his Primarch would triumph. After all, he had already had obtained what he had ostensibly come to the Planet of the Sorcerers for – an opportunity to study the effects of the Rubric and Khayon's strange arts of resurrection. Yet here he was, fighting the spawn of the Dark Prince.

'I am done running,' spat the Primogenitor, before smashing another Maelat out of his way with the Rod of Torment. 'A time comes, in every visionary's life, when he must take a stand against the blind fools who oppose him – and that time is now. Get up, son of Magnus. Get up and fight !'

Despite the pain wracking his body, despite the horror of his lost powers, Sanakht could not help but chuckle. How low had he fallen, that _Fabius Bile_ would lecture him on morality and courage ? He forced himself to his feet, picking up his pair of blades. Bile regarded him, something like satisfaction in his cold, cold eyes. Around them, the mutated spawn of the Primogenitor formed a circle, holding the Maelat at bay. He felt weak – weaker than he had been in centuries. His power was _gone_ , the flame that had been turned into a raging inferno by the Rubric reduced to a few smoldering embers. Somehow, Sanakht doubted he would ever truly recover from what the Warp-tainted xenos had done to him, and part of him despaired at the thought. But he was still a Space Marine. The Maelat had drained his psychic power, but his body was still strong.

'Ahriman was right about you,' said Sanakht to Bile before charging into the twisted Eldar. 'You _do_ belong in the Illuminated Empire, Fabius ! Let us teach your old masters the meaning of defiance !'

And so, the ruined Exalted Sorcerer and the Primogenitor fought back to back against the tide of the Maelat, wielding the strength of their bodies rather than that of their minds. That day, the children of Slaanesh remembered that, for all that his true power laid in his terrifying intellect, Fabius Bile was still a being designed for war. And while his research and Great Work might one day reshape the future of all Mankind, right there and then, it had created an army of hundreds of warriors greater than any mortal and uncaring of the Maelat's unique abilities. Led by the Apothecaries of Bile's coven, Bile's children fought the spawn of Slaanesh, the vicious, gene-forged strength of the New Men matched against the dark power and hunger of the Merciless Ones.

Across the battlefield from where Lucius and Sanakht had duelled, Ctesias stood at the base of the Pyramid. Around him were a dozen of his creations, daemon engines crafted especially for use near the Pyramid without disturbing its aetheric aura. Each was unique in design, forged by the smiths of Sortiarus to reflect the true nature of the Neverborn bound within. He had moved them all to face the coming army, determined to prevent the Slaaneshi creatures from reaching the Pyramid. He did not quite understand what these strange psy-devourers were, but knew they must not interfere with the great work. Ctesias could sense that Ahriman had arrived, which meant that the Keystone would soon be here. Once it was in place and the Pyramid's power was awakened, the daemonist was confident that even the might of the Slaaneshi host would be unable to stand against Sortiarus – but until then, they remained dangerously vulnerable without their Primarch to lead them.

 _Hurry up, Ahzek,_ he thought, watching as the battle-lines dissolved into mayhem and the battle came ever closer to the Pyramid. Behind him, deep within the Pyramid, he could sense Akhor'menet and his circle of fourteen Ascended. They were in communion, preparing the Pyramid's power and containing it while the aether around the great edifice was perturbed by the conflict's violence. But it was all they could do to keep the balance – the Pyramid's power would only be usable once the Keystone was in place. _Blood of the Primarch, hurry up !_

Ctesias gestured with his empty right hand, and at his silent command his creations set forth. With their essences shielded behind layers upon layers of metal and sorcerous protection, the daemon engines tore bloody paths across the Maelat horde, immune to the mutants' aura. The runes on their armor flared each time they slew one of Slaanesh' misbegotten progeny. The daemonist had been careful not to bind any Neverborn from the Dark Prince's choirs into the Pyramid's defense, and the daemons' hatred of their own kind drove them to slaughter the Maelats, who could do little in defense. Their weapons were made to slay mortals and Astartes, not to pierce the heavier armor of the daemon engines. And still, there was no sign of Fulgrim beyond his malevolent aura. Ctesias allowed himself a thin smile – perhaps this wouldn't be as bad as he had thought, after all …

As if to punish him for the hubris of such a thought, he suddenly sensed the other presence he had felt when the Slaaneshi horde had arrived. This time, its aura was far closer and sharper than before. His gaze was drawn to a single humanoid figure that stood on the other side of the daemon engines ravaging the Maelats. It stood alone, cloaked in a thick black robe. Before Ctesias' eyes, it began to walk right toward him, untouched and seemingly unnoticed by the battle that raged all around it. The Exalted Sorcerer attempted to unleash his power on this strange enemy, but to his horror, he found that he could no longer access his psychic gifts – in fact, he could no longer move at all. He was transfixed, his gaze locked onto the nearing figure, utterly powerless to do anything against it.

It took several minutes for the cloaked figure to cross the battlefield and reach Ctesias, and during that time he did not stop trying to free himself from its hold. Even as he struggled in vains against bindings he could barely perceive, his thoughts raced, searching through his extended lore of the dark and forbidden for any clue as to the nature of his foe. Theories popped in his mind, only to be shot down almost immediately. Perhaps this was an alpha-plus psyker, somehow bound to the will of the Phoenician as a reward by his Dark God ? Or perhaps this was a mortal magus, a wizard whose own research and talent had led him to heights of power that surpassed even that of Ctesias' own, and who had allied with the Third Legion to be able to plunder the libraries and treasures of the Illuminated Empire. Or this might be a Daemon Prince, hiding its terrible majesty.

Ctesias wasn't any closer to figuring out the truth when the figure reached out with two pale arms and pressed one hand on each side of his exposed head. Its skin was soft, its touch almost gentle – but then it began to exert its power directly upon him, and the pain of struggling against his bindings was nothing compared to what the daemonist now suffered. He felt his life, his very soul being drained from him, greedily consumed by the creature before him. Only the chains he had laid upon himself with his various pacts and deals preserved him from total annihilation, but the price was terrible agony, and he felt his body being ravaged, all vitality drained from it. He felt as if he would fall to dust within his armor, his soul locked in place by the pacts he had made and the power of the Rubric. Would even Khayon be able to restore him from such a wretched state ?

'Leave him alone,' called out a voice full of confidence and cold, cold rage. 'He is not for you.'

Ctesias was yanked from under the daemon's touch, a telekinetic grip bringing the daemonist to rest gently on the ground. Khayon stepped forward, the portal behind him closing, standing between his unconscious brother and the creature that had hurt him so. His sword was raised, his body was poised for battle, his mind was tense and filled with power. The energies of the Rubric crackled on his black armor, and his eye-lenses glowed with eldritch light. The strange trance that had fallen upon Ctesias and prevented him from defending himself did not affect him, for his mind defenses were up and his will not diffused into keeping several powerful daemon engines under control as Ctesias' had been. Yet none of that made any difference. In a flash of unlight similar to the one that had brought the Slaaneshi host to Sortiarus, the entity flashed into existence directly in front of Iskandar, moving too quickly even for him to react.

Its hand caught him by the throat and, with far more strength than her slim body suggested, it forced him to his knees, where its face was level with his. It was only then that Iskandar realized that the creature had at least the _appearance_ of a human female. Her face was beautiful, but imprecise, like a half-erased drawing from some genius artist. She looked him right into the eyes, the fire within them seeming to burn right through his helmet's lenses, and when she spoke, her voice echoed directly within Iskandar's very soul, tearing through his mental shields like wet paper.

' _You have unmade Zarakynel,'_ said the voice, every word burning inside of Khayon's head. _'But I am greater than that preening fool ever was. I am Lilith, she who defied the will of those who would call themselves her masters. I am the First Daughter of Humanity, who ascended to immortality without the patronage of any of the Four, long before even the Anathema rose from the muck of Old Earth. I am legend, and you … You are nothing before me. In time , perhaps … But not yet.'_

With strength born of desperation, Khayon pulled away from her grasp, raising _Itzica_ between him and the creature. He had taken a single step back, but he would not take another one, for Ctesias laid just behind him, and Iskandar would not leave his unconscious brother at the mercy of this … _thing_.

The daemon – _Lilith_ – cocked her head to the side, watching him with curiosity and a hint of surprise, but made no further move. The Necromancer's hearts were pounding, and cold sweat ran on his skin – and deep within his soul, he felt something he had grown increasingly familiar with since Ahriman's gambit to save the Legion had worked beyond all expectations. He felt dread at facing something so much more powerful than he was – and, deeper still, the thrill of excitation at such a challenge. He knew she had spoken only truth – he could sense it in his soul. Here was a daemon – no matter what Lilith might claim about her origin, that was still all that she was now – of impossible age, older than any in Khayon's collection. If he could bind her into his service, what secrets would he learn from her, once she was compelled to speak only truth ? What insight into Mankind's distant past would be revealed to him, if he but prove himself strong enough ?

The sound of flapping wings drew Khayon's eyes upward, and a great shadow fell upon the battlefield as Fulgrim soared above the combatants. Like some hideous daemon of ancient myth, the Daemon Primarch was flying toward the Pyramid, contemptuously deflecting or ignoring any attack aimed at him. Light from the Nine Suns reflected on his white scales in a myriad of impossible colors, and the sand of Sortiarus melted into gemstones where the twisted illumination touched it. His gaze was fixed upon the Pyramid's top, where Ahriman had appeared mere moments before the Slaaneshi host had manifested out of thin air. If he reached it now …

'Ahriman !' Khayon shouted, both with his mind and his voice, the urgency in both clear to anyone – it wasn't quite panic yet, but it was uncomfortably close. All thoughts of the knowledge and power he could claim if he bound Lilith were gone. 'We need the Pyramid's power ! NOW !'

Atop the Pyramid, Ahriman heard his brother's call. If _Khayon_ of all his brothers was starting to panic, then the rest of the Legion had to be in an even worse shape. They _did_ need the Pyramid's power, and they needed it _now._ There was no more time for hesitation, for preparations – there would not even be time for testing, which given the amount of power the Illuminated Empire had invested in the construction, could turn _catastrophically_ wrong. There was no time for failure, either. Ahriman _must_ succeed.

The Arch-Sorcerer of Tzeentch raised the Black Staff high. Before him, the Necroteuch hung in the air, pages flapping as Ahriman called forth the precise knowledge contained within. Even his prodigious intellect could not absorb all the dark lore contained within the book, and while Ahriman did not precisely require the book's assistance in what he must attempt now, he knew that it could help prevent one of the scenarii he feared most might come out of his efforts.

Ahriman slammed his staff down, and sent his will directly into the Warp, calling directly onto the fragments of his mind for the second time. He did not ask for power this time – it hadn't been enough against Mortarion, it wouldn't save him now. Instead, he made a simple, direct request.

' **Bring me the Keystone ! No matter the cost, no matter what must be lost, no matter what must burn, no matter how many must die. The flame of illumination shall not be drowned by the tides of decadence. You know what must be done; you know what I seek.** ** _Bring it to me_** **!'**

The Call of Ahriman echoed far into time and space, to the fragments of his psyche scattered through the Sea of Souls at the time of the Rubric's casting. Across all of time and space, the will of the Arch-Sorcerer expressed itself. Figments of imagination and half-formed thoughts, splinters of ideas and discarded dreams, the fragments of Ahriman acted, a Broken God for a broken galaxy.

And as it was ordered, so was it done.

* * *

 **Next Up : The Call of Ahriman**

* * *

AN : Well, _this_ took longer than I had planned. Originally, this was supposed to be out _days_ ago, and the _next_ part should have come up today, for Halloween. But I fell sick, and here we are. Instead, the Call of Ahriman will come out sometimes next month. It's going to be a full-fledged short story on its own, far longer than what I have written for this story so far. I am looking forward to it - it's going to be a mystery story, which is very different from anything I have written before. I have a few notes on it, but _no clue_ how long it will take me to actually write it. I have found in the past that writing new things tends to inspire me, but that's not a golden rule.

IRL stuff is going to keep me busy in a few days - I need to move and start my new job. Hopefully, I will be able to complete either the next part of this story or the next part of the Siege of Terathalion before next Monday, but if not, then it's likely going to be a while before I can finish anything. Then again, I have thought that before, and been proven wrong ... Just don't be worried if I don't publish anything in the coming days/weeks, okay ?

As usual, thanks you all for your support. If you have questions or suggestions, don't hesitate to leave them in your reviews or contact me by PM.

Zahariel out.


	45. The Call of Ahriman

**The Call of Ahriman**

 _One – The Tablet of Signs_

I remember a time when I begrudged the Inquisition for its dissimulation of our past. In that more innocent time, I believed that the Holy Ordos did so out of their own desire to control us, to restrain our knowledge of ourselves through our knowledge of those who had come before. I realize now how necessary these efforts are, for the past of the Imperium is dark and blood-soaked, and there are things dwelling in it that should be left forgotten, secrets that should be left undisturbed. In these cases, simply hiding the truth is not enough – it must be destroyed, every trace of it wiped out until only the gentle lie remains. I know this now. But back then, I did not know better. Emperor forgive me, I did not know better.

Would anything have changed if I had ? I doubt it. Powers far greater than I engineered the course of events that led to my present distress, and there is precious little I could do to alter it, even should I be granted a second try, a return through time back to where it all started. Such a thing, I now know, is not beyond the reach of some of these same powers, but I know also the price they would ask for such a boon. And when even did it really begin ?

For me, Anarion of House Dragleiov, it began with innocuously enough, with a meeting of the Association for the Study and Preservation of Legato's Past. Despite its pompous name, the Association was really an informal affair, a club where those of the Imperial elite who shared an interest in our world's history met together to speak of things that, more often than not, would bore to death anyone outside our little circle. For one night each month, we would gather, and talk about our theories and analysis of the many things that had transpired on our little piece of the Imperium since its discovery and colonization in the last century of the thirty-second millennium. Even on a tranquil planet such as ours, a lot of things still happened in three thousand years, and we never lacked for a subject of discussion.

Though we all belonged to the Imperium's higher spheres, we were quite a diverse group. Most of our number, like myself, came from the noble families that owned much of the planet's infrastructure and could trace their lineage all the way back to Alexander De Sredetz, the near-mythical Rogue Trader who had discovered Legato. People whose bloodlines had feuded for centuries sat facing one another and discussed amiably, the disputes of their kinsmen seeming petty and insignificant compared to the greatness of History. None of us held any real power among the scheming ranks of our peers, content to indulge our passion and not involve ourselves in the plots and grudges that occupy the lives of much of the Imperium's nobility. Perhaps that was why members of our circle had often outlived their brethren, in the seven centuries since it was founded.

Some of us were dedicated to the study of past events, poring over records and piecing together the greater picture from a hundred scattered fragments. They read the journals and letters of their ancestors, the recorded proclamations of past Governors, and even the dull records of the Administratum, seeking clues and trends amidst oceans of next-to-meaningless data. Others fancied themselves archaeologists, collectors of ancient relics – though in truth, even they delegated the actual digging to lackeys, content with receiving the fruits of their work in return for funding from their private accounts. Within the Houses of Legato, even a dilettante's stipend is more than enough to fund a dozen expeditions at once, if the dilettante is careful with his money. Sometimes we would work together on a particular subject, forming small cabals of a handful of individuals pooling their talents and assets together in order to present their findings to the Association afterwards.

Over the centuries, our group had accomplished quite a lot, academically speaking. We had clarified the blood relations of five Houses to Alexander, and uncovered the motives behind the first House War, fifteen centuries ago. In more recent times, we had even exposed the fraudulent accusations that had nearly brought two Houses into open warfare, after studying the allegations of inbreeding and ancient wrongs that had sparked the hostilities. The one responsible for that discover, Dominique Estarius of House Talleri, had been called by the Adeptus Arbites to lend his expertise to the trial that had led to the sentencing and execution of the three individuals responsible. Seeing the one hundred and ninety-four years old man at the bar had been a surrealist moment, and one that had given us much to discuss.

That day, the height of our gathering came from one of our more unusual members : Magos Herodius of the illustrious Adeptus Mechanicus. The magos was the only one of our group who actually took part in archaeology's less glamorous but most essential side. In the manner of tech-priests, he had altered his body to better suit his pursuits, adding several mechadendrites to his augmentations since I had first encountered him. Despite the fact that there wasn't an inch of skin visible on his person, he was still quite congenial, as eager as any of us to speak with people sharing his interests. Though he had not revealed the details of his presentation, we all knew he had been working in the underhive, under heavy guard as he sought to unearth the secrets of Legato's first colonists. The dangers of his environment had seemingly failed to register in his mind – that, or he trusted the abilities of his battle-servitors to keep him safe from the gangs that held the area.

'You will be surprised, I think' was all he had told me when I had accosted him earlier this evening, his flat synthetic voice not carrying the enthusiasm I was sure he must feel. 'In fact, you may just come to reconsider everything you think you know of Legato's history.'

He was more right than he thought – than he could have imagined, damn him – but back then all I felt was excitement, even though I believed his turn of phrase to be hyperbole. I remember that night with bitter clarity now : there were twenty-three of us gathered in total, four-fifths of the Association's full membership. This time, our meeting took place within the home of Leopold, of House Janus, one of the oldest living members of the Association and the only survivor of a feud that had decimated both his family and the rival House. Leopold often volunteered his residence for our meetings – I think he was the one among us who most enjoyed the company of his peers, lonely as the rest of his life was.

Herodius stood at the center of a circle of comfy armchairs upon which the rest of us sat, holding crystal glasses of fine amasec and other spirits. Next to him was a pillar of about a meter and a half in height, covered in an opaque curtain. Once he was sure he had our attention, he removed the curtain, revealing a cage of glass within which were held up two fragments of a rectangular tablet. The fragments were held in place by metal supports, arranged to show that they must be two pieces of the same whole, though a piece was missing between them. Each of the fragments was covered with a cuneiform script the likes of which I had never seen, but which filled me with a most singular sense of unease and familiarity, like something seen in a dream that is forgotten upon waking.

'The tablet itself is made of some kind of clay, mixed with other elements that confirm it was created on this planet and not brought from off-world. But that isn't the truly fascinating part. For I have used every dating method available to me,' continued Herodius, 'and they all put the tablet's origin around the fifth century … _of the thirty-first millennium.'_

The silence in the room following the tech-priest's declaration was deafening. If Herodius' analysis was correct, and there was no reason to believe his exacting standards had suddenly slipped, then the tablet pre-dated the colonization of Legato by fourteen centuries. On many planets, this wouldn't have been nearly as shocking, but there were no records of any pre-Imperial civilization on Legato when De Sredetz had discovered it in 935M42. Herodius was right – if this was true, then this could revolutionize everything we thought we knew of Legato's history. We descended upon Herodius like starved vultures, shouting questions, all pretence of order gone in the wake of his incredible revelation. For a few seconds, he remained silent, basking in the undivided and complete attention of his peers, then he raised his hands and called for silence. It took nearly a whole minute for him to get it, so high was our excitement.

'I trust I do not need to explain to you the import of this discovery,' said Herodius dryly. 'This could open an entire new section of history for us all to explore together, my friends. And, if my interpretation of the tablet's contents is, again, correct, then it is a period filled with most interesting facts and revelations.'

'You have actually managed to translate it ?!' I asked, surprise making me shout the question. I was not alone in my surprise : others were also asking, for none could recognize the script.

'I did,' confirmed Herodius. 'It was not easy, but I eventually discovered that it uses a variant on one of the ancient languages of Holy Terra, and was able to construct a cypher. There have been, of course, some interpretation, but I am confident that my translation is generally correct.'

'I will let you judge the contents for yourself,' declared the tech-priest, one of his mecha-dendrites emerging from his robes and coming to rest against the glass. The device embedded in its extremity whirred to life, and a dot of red light appeared on the tablet, moving as Herodius began to speak the translation of the words engraved out loud :

"The Work was complete, at long last, and the faithful rejoiced and praised the Lord of All.

But before its promise could be fulfilled, the warriors of the Great Thief, the Treacherous Son, came, and broke the kingdom apart, and plunged the light into darkness.

But there shall come a time when the stars are right once more, and the winds of destiny align to bring forth the completion of the Lord of All's Great Design.

Nine shall be signs of His return, marking the steps toward the recompense of the faithful.

First shall be the Sign, given onto the Wanderer, that will guide him to the Land ..."'

Herodius stopped in his recitation, his pointer having reached the end of the symbols engraved upon the tablet's first fragments. No one was speaking, the possible implications of what had already been revealed to us sending our minds spinning. Stories taught to us as children by the Ecclesiarchy and that most of us had long since discarded as legends and religious propaganda suddenly returned to us. I myself remembered the stern-faced priest who had taught me to read when I had been but six years of age, and the grim warnings he had given me of the Nine Devils of the Outer Dark and their great war against the God-Emperor and His nine Primarchs. Childhood terrors I had thought long behind me reared their ugly heads, and I found myself silently reciting prayers as the evidence of the tablet's words dredged them up. Could this be the events to which the tablet referred ? The fabled Heresy of Horus, Thrice-Damned Betrayer and Scion of Evil ? Could the "Work" and "Great Design" be a poet's way to refer to the Holy Great Crusade that had delivered Mankind from the shackles of xenos oppression and ushered in the Age of Imperium ?

Certainly the "Lord of All" must refer to the God-Emperor, if the culture that had created the tablet had any relation to the Imperium and was no heathen and degenerate civilization. I knew there were plenty of worlds that worshipped the Master of Mankind in ways me and the rest of my noble brethren would find barbaric and/or primitive, but whose devotion was accepted by the Ecclesiarchy all the same. Such was the majesty of the God-Emperor, the priests told, that no mortal mind could truly comprehend it, and gave names and titles to His divinity in order to understand even a fragment of His true grace.

After a suitable pause to let us consider the contents of the first fragments and cool our aflame imaginations, Herodius resumed, his mecha-dendrite moving to follow the lines of the second fragment :

'Unfortunately, I have been unable to find the missing pieces of the tablet. But as you will see, the translation of the other fragment clearly confirms the more traditional analysis that told me that these were once parts of the same whole. Here are its contents :

"Seventh shall be the Word unearthed, to illuminate the chosen and lead toward the Truth.

Eighth shall be the discovery of the long-lost Beacon, the sacred relic crafted by the faithful in offering to the Lord of All, but which was lost in the fires of betrayal before it could be offered, and the Covenant renewed for all eternity.

And Ninth shall be the purging of the wicked, as the true servants of the Lord of All rise to destroy those who lurk in the darkness, praying to the idols of false faith.

Then shall the Lord of All come, and take the Beacon from the hands of his most faithful servants, and usher in a new age for all who come in contact with his light."'

We spent the rest of the evening and most of the following night discussing the tablet's contents. Herodius, of course, was the most pressed for details, as we all asked him for more information about the circumstances of the tablet's discovery. He was quite willing to share them, clearly enjoying being the center of attention.

The tablet had been found within ancient ruins that the tech-priest's digging teams had reached a few weeks ago, deep below the underhive. Herodius had been searching for signs of the earliest settlements – what we had _thought_ were the earliest settlements, anyway – when his team had uncovered the entrance to what appeared to be a network of collapsed tunnels. Some excavation work had revealed it to be the ruins of a once grand structure that had been buried under the dust of ages, and then by the hive-city that had been built above it. After days of very careful work, so as not to damage anything, Herodius had reached the chamber in which he had found the fragments. There was much of the ruins still to explore, he explained, but the translation of the tablet had been of such import that he had decided to share it with us all.

Many of us were more than willing to go see the ruins for ourselves, despite the danger inherent in entering the underhive. Herodius refused them all, claiming that, beyond the risks, he needed to contact the authorities and ask for their support in extending the area of his study. First, though, he wanted to thoroughly examine what laid within the zone he was permitted to explore. Once that was done, he promised that any member of the Association who so desired would be welcome to visit. I had to admit to myself that I was impressed : by making the approval of his extension a condition without outright saying it, he had ensured that the whole Association would put whatever influence its members held to make it happen. That would not happen soon, though : Herodius also made it clear that he needed more time to perform a few more analyses before extending his search. Such was the import of his discovery that he did not want hasted work to risk ruining its credibility.

Beyond the historical significance of the discovery, there was another, silent current to the discussions of the night. Though none of us were willing to speak it aloud, we were all thinking of the tablet's prophecy. Most importantly, how easy it was to think of the first sign it spoke of as already having been fulfilled. There were many stories of how De Sredetz had found Legato, suitably altered by the passage of time for the glorification of the first Governor (and, through him, his descendants). In many of these stories, it had been a sign of the God-Emperor who had led the Rogue Trader to Legato, through the potent and treacherous currents of the Warp. Was this what the "first sign" had been announcing, thousands of years before it had occurred ?

If only we had known. We would have beaten Herodius to death with our bare, impeccably manicured hands, ripped out his augmetics to be melted down and thrown whatever remained into the closest incineration pit – and we would rightly have called it both just and merciful.

 _Two – A Move on the Shadowed Board_

Less than a week later, I found myself at a family dinner held for the three hundredth anniversary of House Dragleiov's patriarch, my great-great-grandfather. This was one of the few social events I would not be allowed to miss, lest I bring suspicions of familial disloyalty onto my head. And so I went, dreading the hours of boredom, having to listen to speech after speech glorifying our family history – which, I knew from personal study, was little more than century after century of bullying weaker Houses and exploiting the population of Legato, with the occasional bloody coup, fratricide and inbred lunatic and degenerate to spice things up. I knew there were other archives to which I had not been given access, and could well imagine what shameful histories they contained. Every House on Legato – indeed, I am certain, every single noble House in the Imperium – has its own hidden skeletons. It is accepted – _expected,_ even. What matters in those things is _discretion._ As long as you don't get caught, then almost _anything_ short of outright treason against the Golden Throne can be swept under the rug for the right amount of money … and influence.

The party took place within the greatest and most resplendent chamber of Spire Dragleiov, with every member of the family present. Even those who had been sent to other hive-cities had come back, whether they had left in pomp or disgrace. To not invite them would have given the image of disunity – which was absolutely true, and every one of our enemies knew it, but appearances matter more than fact in the games of Imperial nobility. There is a twisted sort of logic to it all once you understand the scale of what's at stake, but I try to not spend too much time thinking about it.

In total, there were more than a hundred guests, and at least ten times that number of servants. An orchestra of servitors played on a dais, while the guests sat at tables, pecking at the foodstuffs and drinks brought to them by servants clad in the House's livery. The money invested in the food alone could have supplied an entire section of the hive with sustenance for a year.

After the speeches were over – something for which I gave a silent prayer of thanks to the God-Emperor – I retired to an isolated table, near the edge of the room, and nursed my glass of amasec, observing the rest of the party, waiting for the time it would no longer be inappropriate for me to depart. None of the courtiers and schemers came to disturb me, for my disinterest in family politics was well-known, a fact I had worked very hard to achieve.

So you can imagine that it was with some not inconsiderate surprise that I saw the star of the evening, Illiod Maximilian Dragleiov the Fourth, come toward me, gesturing for his entourage of hanger-ons to disperse and await his return to the rest of the party. I immediately stood up, of course. My forebear and House liege lord didn't look his exact age – though what _that_ would look like is, I confess, beyond my imagination – thanks to multiple juvenant treatments over the years. He _did_ look old, like one would expect a kindly grandfather to look, but I knew it for the affectation it was. A mane of white hair fell on his shoulders, and his beard and mustache both reached the middle of his chest. Clad in an elaborate vest that had cost more than our workers made in five generations, he cut a very dignified figure. Of course, _I_ knew how he had come to his exalted position, which diminished the effect somewhat. No amount of expensive clothing can make a kinslayer anything else.

'Anarion, my boy,' he said genially, taking a seat and gesturing for me to sit back down, which I did by reflex. 'It has been a long time, has it not ? How has life treated you, child ?'

We had not spoken since my coming of age, more than thirty years ago, but I knew better than to mention it. My mind was reeling with one single question : why ? Why had the House patriarch come to talk with me ? What game was the old man playing now, and what part did I have in it ? I could feel the gazes directed toward us, full of suspicion and envy. Illiod was one of the most powerful men on Legato, a position one did not reach by being frivolous and indulging in fancies – surely, the onlookers must think, this was part of some scheme of his, and I must be an accomplice in whatever it was. I had to be careful – any missteps now could not only bring the wrath of this elder upon me, but also ruin my carefully cultivated image.

'I am quite well, my lord,' I said, after a fraction of a second. I gave thanks for my lessons in protocol and etiquette, drilled into me when I was a child and still embedded in my mind strongly enough that the polite, meaningless reply was automatic rather than conscious. The same lessons made me speak the next appropriate line : 'My congratulations as well.'

He waved my words aside with a hand sporting two rings, one on the middle finger and the other on the index. The first was the symbol of his position as leader of House Dragleiov, a heavy thing bearing the family seal. The other was stranger in design, appearing to be made of several bands of silver and gold interwoven, each engraved with nearly invisible letters that shone briefly whenever they caught the light. I remembered that he had worn both rings during our last meeting as well – in fact, they were the only jewellery on his hands. That spoke of an awareness of his own power and wealth that transcended the need to flaunt it, and also indicated that the second ring, whatever its provenance, must have great import to Illiod.

'Being old is hardly deserving of praise, though it is cause for celebration,' he said. 'Tell me, you are member of this … group of historians among the nobility, correct ?' After I nodded in confirmation, not quite able to suppress a twinge of dread, he continued : 'I have heard one of your little circle made a great discovery recently, but my contact wasn't able to tell me anything precise – only that it was something important. Could you tell me more ?'

That was … surprising. I had not expected Illiod to be interested in – to even be _aware_ of – the activities of the Association. Then again, as I have said before, we _had_ made some splashes in the past, so it wasn't _too_ surprising that my forebear would be keeping an eye on us, if only to make sure we didn't inadvertently end up uncovering some of House Dragleiov's own embarrassing secrets. Surely this was why he was asking, just in case the "great discovery" turned out to involve our lineage somehow. I could easily assuage his concerns on that, and proceeded to do so.

I told him everything I had learned from Herodius' presentation, even forcing from my memory the details of the prophecy-sounding words on the tablet. Illiod was especially interested in those, though he always kept a smiling expression that told me he did not take the prophecy part seriously. After that, we discussed for several minutes the possible origins of the pre-Imperial ruins, making idle and baseless speculation. He even confessed to me that he was "the tiniest bit worried" about the possible political and societal consequences of this discovery should it be revealed. I told him that Herodius was a professional, and that he would take care in revealing the full scope of his discoveries only to the proper authorities. At this, my great-grandfather appeared relieved, and returned to the swarm of sycophants awaiting his pleasure.

I left the party soon after that, in a relatively good mood – me and the patriarch had discussed only things that not even the most twisted of my kin would be able to interpret as political scheming. With any luck, my reputation as an apolitical dilettante would not suffer overmuch from the inevitable rumors that would circulate about the soirée's events. And as a bonus, I had been able to talk about my passion without facing scorn. That was rare enough, for the Association was known for caring more about the truth of the past than how it could be presented and manipulated for the greater glory of one's House, which was received as well as you can imagine in these esteemed circles.

At no point did I stop to consider that I had been unusually open with my knowledge : after all, to try and hide anything from Illiod would have been both impolite, dangerous and ultimately useless. He would have found out eventually, when the Association finally revealed what had been discovered, with Herodius leading the proceedings. And perhaps that is true – but _why_ would he have done so ?

In hindsight, I should have suspected something right there and then, should have realized something was going on. I _knew_ Illiod did not do anything without a hidden motive or three, and his own three-centuries birthday was not a good enough reason to stop. There _had_ to be a reason he was asking me this. All of that I should have thought about; but I did not. It was only much later that I understood why, and by then it was far too late to do anything but curse the cruelty of fate.

I returned to my quarters and went to bed. The very next day, Herodius' dig site was seized and barred off by troops bearing the heraldry of the Planetary Governor, while the tech-priest himself vanished from sight.

 _Three – The Shadow Cast by the Past_

I heard the news by accident – or so I assumed at the time. It was by an exchange between two provosts, as I crossed the plaza outside of the Administratum headquarters, where I had been summoned on some inconsequential verification the week after my forebear's party. The two law enforcers were on break, smoking sticks of approved stimulants in the gloom of the plaza's early evening illumination. They had been part of the team sent in to seize the dig site, and were complaining to one another about how they had been sent into the underhive with little warning or preparation, only to have the site taken over from them by the Governor's own household troops.

'And they are blaming _us_ for the disappearance of that renegade tech-priest who was supposedly running things there,' said one of them. 'As if we had a chance to catch him ! If they had given us more time to prepare, we could have trapped him easily, but no, it had to be done _right now !_ Frakking nobles got no sense of how things are actually done, I tell you.'

'Shut up,' replied his colleague. 'You talk like that, you are going to get into trouble. I don't know why the higher-ups wanted some dig site secured, or why they wanted it done immediately, but there got to be a reason – we just aren't seeing it. And you don't want to draw the attention of the bosses in this case, trust me. They seemed … _really_ keen on securing the place.'

'Yeah, that was weird too. Why did they send us for something like that ? I mean, it looked like just really old stuff to me – not worth the risk of starting a war with the gangs, I think.'

'You are not paid to _think_ , Max,' chided the other with tone of finality. 'You are paid to obey and serve the God-Emperor's will. Now shut up and enjoy your smoke before we go back to it.'

I reached my home in a state of not inconsiderable turmoil. Somehow, I could not shake the feeling that it had been my careless words at my great-great-grandfather's party that had caused my peer's (for surely the two enforcers had been talking about Herodius, since I doubted there were two tech-priests leading archaeological digging explorations in the underhive) misfortune. Why that would be so, I could not say, but my conviction grew with each step, and my guilt along with it.

So agitated was I when I arrived that I nearly fainted when a servant handed me a package that had arrived for me during my absence, and I recognized Herodius' sigil upon it – not his official signature, whatever that was, but the mark he had used in past exchanges with members of the Association as an affectation of sorts. In my guilt and shock, the augmetic skull of the Adeptus Mechanicus that also was on the package seemed to be glaring at me, as if the cybernetic aspect of the God-Emperor was accusing me of putting His servant into danger.

I managed to hide my shock and took the package, immediately withdrawing to my quarters. After locking the door and taking a moment to compose myself, I opened it, revealing several sheets of paper, the first of which was covered in a small, neat script. This was Herodius' own handwriting, though it was indistinguishable from that of any servitor-scribe. Yet despite the regularity of the script, the letter's contempts were abrupt and somewhat confusing, showing the strain on the writer's mind. I began to read this first missive, and my dread soon returned, much stronger now.

" _I know not who it is who shall read these words. Recent events have led me to doubt my own mind, which is why I shall send what I fear will be my last message to a random member of the Association for the Study and Preservation of Legato's Past. May the Omnissiah guide me through His blessed algorithms, and see this knowledge delivered safely, that the data may be preserved._

 _As I write these words, thirty days have passed since I presented my first findings to the Association. Six days after the showing of the tablet, my digging servitors excavated a passage leading to a buried construction. The prospect of the secrets to be uncovered in a pre-Imperial ruin set my imagination ablaze – who knew what wonders of ancient technology might await ? Still, I was not foolish, and sent servitors ahead, to test the integrity of the structure and map its interior. When they returned intact, but with their memory banks devoid of the information they had been sent to collect, I blamed my assistants for failing to properly maintain their sacred mechanisms. Logic and protocol would have dictated the servitors be sent in again after repairs, but I could no longer contain my impatience. The glory of the Omnissiah demanded that this matter be investigated at once._

 _I descended into the tunnel, a corridor whose ceiling had partially collapsed, with my senses and implanted recording devices activated to maximum capacity, determined to reap as bountiful a harvest of data as possible. With me were a pair of servitors, for my protection, just in case. The failure of my previous attempt left me with no plan of the underground structure, but I knew it had taken the exploring servitors forty-two minutes to complete their sweep, indicating that a large area could still be accessed. I was confident that, even if the ruins proved to be a labyrinth, I would find my way. After all, I had managed to navigate the corridors of Albideus the Mad's manor, a nobleman from Legato's past who had decided to build a palace in the middle of the wasteland between the hive-world's cities and had subsequently vanished until I had located the building, buried under dust and sand and filled with the mummified corpses of his servants and himself._

 _It only took a few minutes for me to understand that the pre-Imperial structure had been a temple – and not one to any divinity the Imperial Creed would accept. The walls were made of grey stone, as were the murals and broken statues that littered it. Any coloration had long since faded away, but the monstrosity of what I beheld was undiminished. I saw images of hideous mutations, blasphemies against the holy form of Man. Tentacles, beaks, and far too many eyes, creating horrors before which depictions of unblemished humans knelt in abject supplication, worshiping the abominations as if they were, by their nature, superior to the children of the Omnissiah. A particular mural held me in horrible attention for several minutes : it showed a succession of figures, as if they were walking one behind the other. Each figure was slightly different from the other, and while the figure to the left was human, the one to the right was a monstrosity of scaled skin and bulging eyes._

 _Soon after managing to tear myself from that dreadful vision, I realized that my confidence in my abilities to find my way had been misplaced. My mapping protocols could not keep up with the strange, non-euclidian geometry of these twisting corridors. What seemed to be straight paths led back to places I had already passed by. I lost my two servitors within moments, and when I eventually found one of them again, his flesh components had long decayed into dust, and its blessed augmetics showed signs of rust that basic analysis indicated had been ongoing for more than three hundred standard years. Or at least that was the case for the first sample I took – other parts showed different rates of ageing. It was all utterly impossible, of course, but the data did not lie, even if the reality it depicted was obscene. This place did not obey the laws by which the Omnissiah orders the turning of the universe. It was foul, corrupted, and the heretical idols were but the slightest sign of its inherent vileness._

 _I found other examples of the ancient script I had first encountered on the fragmented tablet, at the beginning of my digging efforts. With the cypher loaded in my cogitators, I could translate them with little efforts. These were blasphemous prayers, incantations to the entity those who had worshiped here called the "Lord of All". Any notion that this divinity might have been an aspect of the Omnissiah was crushed by the prayers' nature : they were appeals for change of the flesh, mutation of the genetic code so that the worshipers may become closer to the monstrosities represented by the grey stone statues. Others were foul debasements, proclamations of submission to the greater will of their god, surrender of their own will in return for a place in its designs. There was a twisted sort of familiarity in the latter : after all, the creed of the Machine-God is based on the service of the faithful to the Omnissiah's grand plan. But while we sons and daughters of Mars embrace the purity of the Machine to transcend our frail flesh, the blasphemers who had built this temple thousands of years ago desired to welcome the corruption of the Warp in their very bodies._

 _I could feel my logic engines fraying with every heretical text I translated, and eventually unloaded the cypher from my conscious mind. Piecing the secrets of this place no longer mattered – all I sought was to escape. I wandered through the maze as fast as I could, not looking at anything, choosing my path at random whenever a choice presented itself. When I finally emerged from that infernal maze, two of my internal chronometers indicated I had been inside for more than thirty days, while a third had only counted a handful of seconds and the last was positive I had returned before I had actually entered these accursed tunnels. I was in such a state of agitation that I forcibly reset every one of them, handling their machine-spirits far more violently than I should have. The impossible architecture, the strange passage of time, the unnatural scriptures on the walls – it all combined to overcome even the wisdom and tranquillity bestowed by the Machine-God upon His servants. A brief burst of data from my assistants told me that, from their point of view, I had been gone in the underground complex for no more than five hours, with no contact since I had vanished from sight. They had been about to send a request to our superiors for assistance – in fact, I emerged at the precise time Jaellus was about to call. I do not believe that was a coincidence._

 _I withdrew to my quarters to ponder the data I had acquired within the complex. I did so for nearly twenty hours, far more time than it should have taken. My paths of thinking kept collapsing every time my mind flashed back to what I had seen in the temple. I knew I must do_ something _– I just didn't know what. I had to warn someone about the corruption lurking beneath the capital hive-city of Legato. I had to contact those who were tasked with such things – the grim guardians of the Imperium, who passed judgement upon all who breached the sacred laws of the Omnissiah-as-Emperor. But every time I started to think on how to best accomplish that, my cogitators looped back to the beginning after a few minutes. Even realizing that this was unnatural – that something I had picked up in the ruins was interfering with my logic engines – took me hours._

 _Eventually, I was freed from my loop, not because of any breakthrough, but by external stimulus. First, voices, both organic and synthetic, raised in anger. Then the sound of lasbolts being fired, binary screeching, and more voices shouting. I left the prefabricated barracks that were my quarters to find my camp under attack by dozens of soldiers wearing the insignia of Legato's Governor. The battle-servitors I had brought to defend us from the underhive's gangs fought back, but were soon overwhelmed. I saw my assistants being caught and chained, while every servitor – even those who were mono-tasked to digging and therefore utterly armless – was destroyed._

 _I knew, as I looked upon my servitors being shot and my assistants being dragged away, that this was the work of the corruption I had witnessed in the temple. How I knew, I could not explain. The realization did not come from the logic engines that had been put into my cranium when I had stopped to be a member of House Jieliron and became a scion of the Mechanicus. It came from my meat-brain – my weak, flawed,_ human _meat-brain. Some instinct that had not been suppressed by my decades of training and service to the God-Machine had detected a pattern that my cogitators, in their addled condition, had been unable to identify, and put the dots together. And so I ran._

 _I fled through the camp and the lines of enforcers. They shot at me, but my body was strong, to be able to perform work in the field, and the weak spots of a flesh body were either removed or covered by thick plating. Two of them blocked my way with riot shields and shock mauls. Without thinking, I struck them with my digging tools, and splattered their entrails on the ground before fleeing into the labyrinth of streets and half-collapsed buildings that made up the underhive. Thankfully, I still had the maps of the underhive I had collected over my years of exploring the world beneath – maps far more detailed than even those in the hands of the Arbites._

 _I am writing these words in the last of a series of hiding spots in the underhive, with the agents of my enemies drawing ever closer. I hope – I pray – that the messenger to which I will entrust this package will manage to slip them by and bring it to its destination. I know not what may be done, but at least some trace of what I have witnessed will endure. I fear there is something horribly wrong with Legato, a dark and vile presence that has its roots within the ruins I made the mistake of bringing to the light. The evil I witnessed in that ancient temple had, I dread, already made its way into the world above long before I uncovered its lair. All of my life, I have studied the histories of Legato, and as I review my logs from that research, everywhere I look I see its mark, manipulating everything from the shadows. Perhaps I am simply losing my mind, the logic circuits of my cogitator engines and meat-brain corrupted by the unholiness I witnessed in the temple. Perhaps the attack on my digging camp was an hallucination, and even it is not, perhaps it happened at the will of one of the guardians of order and sanity I myself knew must be called upon to deal with the situation. I hope that is the case, and paranoia, rather than truth, is what has driven me to these extremities – for then at least I will die alone, rather than, I fear, accompanied by Legato itself._

 _Whoever it is that ends up reading these words, whatever you do after putting this letter down,_ do not go into these ruins _. Only primordial madness and ageless horrors await you there."_

The rest of the package contained Herodius' notes, along with picts taken within the ruins he had uncovered. The images were blurry, as if the hand that had taken them was shaking, which only added to the agitation I was already feeling from reading the letter. They were also of low-quality, far inferior to the usual level of Herodius' findings. Where had he found the material to print them while on the run ? I did not know. Apparently, there had been more to the tech-priest than any of us suspected, if he had indeed survive in the underhive for days on his own, while hunted by agents of Legato's government.

Even blurred, the picts were still disturbing enough, hinting at impossible geometries and blasphemous mutations and degradations of the human body. My own hands were trembling by then, along with the rest of my body, and I could taste bile in my mouth. It took me several shots of amasec to relax even slightly. I put letter and picts back into the package, and locked it in my desk. Then I went to bed, hoping that by the morning the world would make sense again—hoping against hope that all of this would turn out to have merely been a bad dream.

It did not. Of course it did not. It only got worse. So, so much worse ...

 _Four – The Ninefold Ring_

I had to call the Inquisition. That was not a happy thought. I doubt that, in the entire history of the Imperium, there has ever been someone who has considered the involvement of the Holy Ordos into his life without dread. Well, perhaps the most deluded heretics, convinced that they could somehow manipulate the chosen agents of the God-Emperor. But anyone with even a _shred_ of sanity left would be filled with terror at the prospect. From infancy, we are taught to worship and serve the Master of Mankind, to hate those who turn from His light, and dread and submit to the judgement of those who carry His sword. A thousand stories circulate about the Inquisition, whispered in dread and telling of the destruction its agents leave in their wake, such is their thoroughness in punishing the heretic, the mutant and the xenos. I feared what they would do to Legato, but I knew my duty.

What I did _not_ know was how to get in touch with them. Such details weren't exactly widespread, and to my knowledge, the Inquisition had had no reason to come to Legato ever since its colonization – a fact that, in light of my recent discoveries, took a more sinister shade. Eventually, after several hours fretting uselessly, I decided on what could generously be called a plan : to leave the spire, go to the Astropaths' Tower, get in by bluffing and using my name, and as soon as I saw an astropath, force him to send a message with the highest priority code he knew at gunpoint if necessary. I took the ornate laspistol I had kept in my desk since it had been offered to me by my father twenty years ago, checked the power cell – it was still full, since I hadn't ever fired a single shot with it – and opened the door leading out to my quarters. Then I immediately closed it back.

Seeing at least five individuals carrying weapons and wearing the uniform of the Governor's household troops had that effect. As my heart calmed down, I realized that none of them had appeared tense or on the warpath, that I hadn't heard any las-shots or shouting, and that I had even seen some of the House's servants, acting as if everything was normal. This wasn't an attack on the Dragleiov spire – this was something else, something official. After a few minutes, I managed to convince myself of that. My initial plan was shot down … but there was still something I could do.

I emerged from my chambers once more, telling myself that I had nothing to fear, since I had all the rights in the world to be here, in my own House's domain, and accosted the first guard I saw. The guardsman told me – quite incredulous that I did not already know – that the Governor himself was visiting the lord of House Dragleiov, and that he and the others were added security for the meeting, as was standard protocol. I thanked him, spinned a tale of how distracted I had been in the last few days, and left him to his duties. A quick glance of the guards' positions on my way to the kitchen told me where Illiod and the esteemed sire Nerasmus of House De Sredetz – a name whose claiming had spilled a _lot_ of noble and common blood two hundred years ago – were meeting.

After eating something – the cooks were used to me coming in at random hours when I was caught in my research and didn't comment on how long it had been since I had come out of my quarters – I saw that the meeting was still going on. This was my chance. I knew Illiod was involved with … with whatever it was that was happening on Legato. I still needed to send a warning to the Inquisition – but any knowledge I could gain before that could make all the difference in the long run. Though I wanted nothing more than to leave the spire and run away from the Governor whose forces had attacked my acquaintance's dig site, my instincts told me to remain and uncover more.

I should not have trusted my instincts. I really shouldn't have. But how could I know ?

Illiod and Nerasmus were meeting in one of the many, _many_ salons of Spire Dragleiov, designed for private conversations between highborn scions of the Imperium. But, like so many things in the hallowed halls of power, that privacy was little more than an illusion. Spire Dragleiov had an extensive network of hidden passages allowing to move from one section of the tower to another without being seen, and to spy upon things happening in rooms supposed to be secure. I had discovered these passages in my youth, and spent most of a year getting as complete a map of them as I could. Turning into a corridor without any guard, I pressed a specific point on a wall painting depicting one of my ancestors and ducked into the passage that opened itself in response.

After a few minutes of carefully navigating the obscure, tight corridors, I reached the observation spot for the meeting room. I looked through the hole, and beheld my forebear in talks with the master of Legato, the two of them sitting in leather-covered seats while a grim, black-clad bodyguard loomed at the opposite end of the room, waiting for the first sign of a threat to his charge. Nerasmus De Sredetz looked exactly as he had for the last hundred years, since he had assumed the role of Governor after the previous incumbent's unfortunate demise amidst a flurry of scandals and accusations of incompetence. Tall, handsome, regal, with short blond hair and eyes the color of sapphires, he was clad in the vestments of his office, proclaiming to all who saw him the importance of his position in a way even his natural charisma could not. But it was another thing that drew my eyes : the ring that he was wearing, next to the one which bore the sigil of House De Sredetz and the one that was his badge of office. It was the same ring I had noticed Illiod wearing at his anniversary, made of nine bands of metal twisted together, worn on the same finger.

If that similarity left any doubt as to Nerasmus' involvement in whatever conspiracy held Legato in its thrall, his words soon dispelled them :

'Your service to the Ninefold Ring has not gone unnoticed, Illiod,' the Governor was saying. 'We all know that it is thanks to your intel that we were able to seize the temple before word spread too far. After thousands of years, it will be our generation who will complete the great design and reap the rewards of our predecessors' long work.'

'Then it has been found ?' asked Illiod softly, his eyes wide in awe.

'Yes. At long last, we have uncovered the Beacon, as was foretold. The Eighth of the Nine Signs has been fulfilled, and it now falls onto us to fulfill the last prophecy and bring about the new age.'

'And what of the tech-priest ?' questioned my forebear. 'He might still interfere.'

'He led our agents on a merry chase,' admitted the Governor with grudging admiration. 'But they finally caught up to him earlier this morning. He has been disposed of at last.'

Cold horror filled me as I realized what – or rather, who – they were talking about. Herodius. It had to be him. According to his letter, he had been on the run from the Governor's troops. Now, it seemed that they had finally caught him …

'We are not alone,' barked the bodyguard, before reaching out in front of him with his right hand.

The smell of ozone filled my nostrils, and a fraction of a second later, icy claws tightened around my limbs and pulled me through the wall and into the room, splinters of wood cutting through my clothes and into my skin. I crashed on the floor and rolled, catching a glimpse of the bodyguard – no, I corrected myself in horror : the psyker. This was no mere bodyguard, but a witch, wielding the unholy powers of the Warp. Doubtlessly this was how he had detected my presence : he must have sensed the spike in my emotions when I had heard of Herodius' doom. I knew little about psykers beyond the horror stories, but they were said to be able to read the minds of the Emperor's loyal subject, and pervert their thoughts and souls with their vile corruption. Fear lent me strength, and I rose to my feet, drew my laspistol and fired. The las-bolt struck the creature in the chest, doing no damage, but distracting him enough that his sorcerous hold on my body failed. Ignoring the pain, I started to run toward the door …

' **Stop,** ' said Nerasmus.

My body froze. I was still trying to move, to get away, but my limbs refused to answer my commands. It was a maddening experience, trapped within my own flesh, unable to act. The witch advanced toward me and, after slapping my laspistol away, seized me by the throat and lifted me up.

'He wears your House's colors, Illiod' remarked Nerasmus, speaking of the Dragleiov heraldry on my breast. Neither he nor my forebear or the witch were acting as if me freezing in place at his command was anything out of the ordinary. 'Who is he ?'

'This is my great-grandson, Anarion' said Illiod. 'He is the one who told me about the discovery of the ruins and what had already been found there.'

'I see. **Tell me what you were doing just now, Anarion.** '

'I was spying on your conversation,' the words came out of my mouth without me being able to stop them, 'trying to gather more information on the heresy happening on Legato before I went to the Astropaths' Tower and sent a call for the Inquisition.'

'A shame,' sighed the Governor. 'In time, you might have become a great member of the Ninefold Ring. But it is too late for that now, I am afraid. Kain, kill him.'

The witch's grip tightened. My vision began to darken …

'Lord Nerasmus,' Illiod said quickly, 'I must advise against this. You can see it : he is subject to the Call. It's thanks to him we learned of the tech-priest's discovery. Even if he isn't aware of it, Anarion is an agent of the Lord of All, same as you, same as I. It is not our place to determine his fate. He belongs to our master. After all he has done to help us, surely the Lord of All will reward him. We are so close to fulfilling our great design – let him partake in the coming glory. Please.'

For several seconds, no one said anything. The hand of the psyker around my throat relaxed slightly as he looked at me with cold, soulless eyes, waiting for his master's next command. The Governor was looking between me and my forebear, thinking, weighing options and calculating outcomes.

'Fine,' conceded Nerasmus at last. 'We will bring him with us to the ritual, and the Lord of All can decide of his fate.' He rose from his seat and walked toward me, stopping just out of reach, and said : 'You should be grateful to your great-grandsire, child. Thanks to him, you will witness true glory.'

He wasn't lying. I will give him that : in that moment, for perhaps the first time in decades, Nerasmus De Sredetz wasn't lying. But I would still have preferred death.

 _Five – The Ritual of Beckoning_

They dragged me to the underhive gagged and in manacles, with a pair of guards standing behind me at all times, ready to knock me unconscious if I tried to resist. I did not : I was too shocked and terrified to even think about rebelling. We must have taken vehicles to get down, but I do not recall the details of the journey. The implications of the Governor's participation kept replaying in my mind, over and over again. The sheer _scope_ of this betrayal stunned me. I was among heretics – true servants of the Ruinous Powers, who I had never thought before had a foothold on Legato, let alone among its most distinguished members. If the tales they had recited during their gathering were true, then this conspiracy – this _cult –_ had controlled the planet for hundreds, even thousands of years. And somehow, they had kept it secret from everyone not involved in their hideous treachery.

 _That_ , more than anything, boggled my mind (a fact I was more than a little surprised by, considering the other revelations I had been subjected to). The idea that a group could keep its existence and influence secret for millennia while slowly growing its influence across an entire planet was patently ridiculous. The amateur historian in me could not accept it. There had been other groups on Legato, cabals of nobles from various Houses who had attempted to control the world's destiny. Some had even had psykers in their midst. Even so, they had all failed eventually, betrayed by one of their own or exposed and ruthlessly crushed by rival powers. I had studied some of those cases, and my conclusion had been that it was impossible for a group like this to exist and succeed for long before basic human nature would cause it to fail, one way or another.

But the Ninefold Ring was different, and I feared that I knew why. The Governor had been able to command me to stop, and I had not been able to resist. " _The Call",_ Illiod had called it. Some sort of psychic compulsion ? I had heard horror stories about feral psykers being able to impose their will upon others, but that had felt different somehow. The voice of the Governor itself had not had anything special – it was _my_ body that had reacted to it. _Something_ inside me had heeded his command without me being able to fight back for more than few seconds. And as we arrived to what had once been Herodius' digging site – but was now a fortified camp of Arbites, enforcers, and other military forces – I had an opportunity to see whatever was at play in action once more.

The military forces were under the overall command of a female captain from the Governor's household troops. As we passed through the camp, she came to salute the master of Legato.

'Captain, once I and the other dignitaries have entered the structure, you will begin the purge of the neighbourhood,' commanded the Governor. 'I want the five blocs surrounding this place cleansed.'

'But, my lord,' protested the captain, what little of her face I could glimpse behind her helmet white as a sheet. 'There are _thousands_ of people out there. And the gangs will not take kindly to …'

'Do not question your orders, captain,' said the Governor harshly, before softening his tone and face and continuing : 'There is something here of incredible importance, something far more valuable than you can imagine. It is _vital_ that it be protected from any who would damage it. You may think my command to be excessive,' he continued, his voice taking a conspirational tone, as if he were sharing a secret with a trusted officer, 'but if _others_ in the Imperial hierarchy knew of what lies beneath our feet, they would raze the entire hive to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands. What are the lives of a few degenerate criminals compared to this ? For the good of your city, for the good of my _world_ , you will do as I say. It is a cold and cruel decision, I know, but it is a necessary one. Do you understand ?' he asked, holding the gaze of the captain trapped with his own.

It was all she could do to nod, held captive by the terrible will held within the Governor's eyes. Did she hear the Call as well, or was she simply being intimidated by the Governor's position ? I do not know for certain. Perhaps she was of the blood of one of Legato's House, as my great-grandfather had implied was necessary to be vulnerable to its dread power. Regardless, this was the first and last time I ever saw her. No doubt she is dead by now. She left to fulfill her orders, gathering her troops and launching the purge. As the cultists and I entered the ruins, the sounds of screaming and gunfire began to echo from the distance. The purge had begun.

Inside the temple, I saw with my own eyes the etchings mentioned in Herodius' letter. Each dread sight made my soul quail in horror, yet my forebear and the Governor spoke of them with passion as we passed them by. I knew then that the guards forcing me onward were no mere dupes of the conspiracy, but willing participants to this heresy, for the words exchanged could not be mistaken as anything a proper servant of the God-Emperor would ever think, let alone speak aloud.

Evidently, the heretics knew their way through the ruins better than Herodius had. We reached some sort of central chamber, at the end of which was a stony altar. The wall above the altar was covered with a complex drawing of thousands of curves, with a handful of crimson jewels placed at the points where hundreds of these lines intersected. It took me several seconds to recognize that this was a map of Legato, with each jewel corresponding to one of the planet's hive-cities. But according to Herodius' analysis, this temple was far older than the world's colonization …

Dozens of other cultists were gathered here, forming a circle around the central altar. Their faces were hidden by the hooded robes they wore, but I caught a glimpse of a few of them, and recognized them as proeminent members of various Houses. All of them wore the ninefold ring on their fingers, the sign of their secret allegiance.

Illiod quickly put on a similar robe, vanishing in the mass of anonymous conspirators and leaving me under the watch of the guard near the entrance of the chamber. For his part, Nerasmus took off his noble's clothing and donned a cloak of blue and gold that left his chest bare. Under the light of the torches, I saw the abnormality he had kept concealed for decades now revealed : two vertical, parallel columns of eyes. Each orb was identical to the one opposed to it, but no two set were the same. Some were human eyes in colors I had never seen before, while others had vertical or horizontal slits as pupils, and others still were insectoid, many-faceted spheres. Bile rose through my throat at the sight, and the gag forced me to swallow it back down. _Mutant._ The _Governor_ of my world was a filthy, thrice-damned _mutant._ Somehow that seemed worse than him being an heretic and a traitor to the Golden Throne. To see the evidence of his foulness, his corruption …

As Nerasmus moved toward the altar, he was accosted by a cluster of other cultists, who gestured at the wall sculpture, pointing toward a particular jewel that wasn't shining as brightly as the others. The Governor nodded, and spoke briefly within a portable vox-caster. A few minutes later, the jewel – which corresponded to the hive-city of Alker, known as the most law-abiding and orderly place on Legato – shone just as brightly as the others. Satisfied, the cultists returned to their position in the circle, while Nerasmus ascended the steps leading to the altar and took place behind it.

'For thousands of years,' began Nerasmus, 'the prophecies passed on by our predecessors have guided us, warning us from the threats to our common destiny. For thousands of years, we have worked in the shadows, unified by the promises of the Lord of All, by the light of ascension and transcendance. Now at long last, the appointed hour has come. Join me in celebration, brothers !'

They sang blasphemous chants that I dare not recall, even now, for fear of drawing the eyes of the Powers upon which they called. In-between their dark incantations, the Governor spoke solemnly in High Gothic, a priest of false gods old and new leading his congregation in their worship. He spoke of the Nine Signs, the prophecies that had been at the core of the cult's heretical beliefs – the same prophecies Herodius had discovered on these fragments, what seemed to be so long ago, even though the Association's last gathering had only occurred a few days ago.

The first of the Nine Signs had been the discovery of Legato by Alexander De Sredetz, who had been "guided through the dark by the Lord of All, that he might bring back the lost glories of the past". The second had been the creation of the conspiracy, or as Nerasmus referred to it, the "forging of the Ninefold Ring in the secret flames". The third had been the assessment of the conspiracy's control over Legato by seizing the Governorship, a position that had been held by a member of the cult without pause for the last two thousand years. And the Fourth … well …

'"Fourth shall be the Hunter, bound to the will of the Corpse-God"', said Nerasmus, still reciting from memory. '"He will seek to destroy the faithful and lay down all their works, but they shall cast him down instead, and build a wall of silence to keep the rest of his kind at large."'

On these words, Nerasmus held up an ancient skull, the bone carefully polished, and I nearly gasped as I saw the stylized "I" engraved in its forehead. Every loyal subject of the Imperium was taught the meaning of that symbol, and the dread that it inspired. No one would dare to engrave it upon their own skull like this without having the proper authority, which coupled with the Governor's words could only mean one thing : the skull had belonged to an Inquisitor, or a servant of one. Now I knew why the Inquisition had not stopped the Ninefold Ring : they had tried … and failed. The knowledge that even the Emperor's own agents could fail in the prosecution of their duties was another blow to my ever-frailing sanity.

The Fifth Sign was "the silent war fought against the Scions of Rot". From what I could piece together of Nerasmus' ramblings, the Ninefold Ring had fought against a rival cult on Legato, who had taken root in the working class and had been inciting them to revolt against their corrupt overlords. The grim irony of it was apparently lost on the cultists, whose hatred for the opposing heretical faction was still as strong centuries after their ultimate victory and the extinction of their rivals for domination over Legato's fate.

The Sixth Sign had been "the coming of the Voice", which was the birth and ascension of Nerasmus himself, who "saw the world through the eyes of the Gods" and could "command all those who bore the blessing of the Lord of All".

"Then shall come the last three signs, one after the other, a trinity heralding the time of the Return as destiny's tide quickens. The Son of Iron shall bring forth the truth from the forgotten depths before the ignorant scholars, and they will know it not. Seventh shall be the Word unearthed, to illuminate the chosen and lead toward the Truth. Eighth shall be the discovery of the long-lost Beacon, the sacred relic crafted by the faithful in offering to the Lord of All, but which was lost in the fires of betrayal before it could be offered, and the Covenant renewed for all eternity."

'"And Ninth shall be the purging of the wicked, as the true servants of the Lord of All rise to destroy those who lurk in the darkness, praying to the idols of false faith. Then shall the Lord of All come, and take the Beacon from the hands of his most faithful servants, and usher in a new age for all who come in contact with his light." Now, across Legato, our agents are at work, bringing the judgment of the Lord of All upon the criminals, the lowlifes and the weaklings,' Nerasmus continued, his voice filled with an all-too familiar disgust and pride. 'In death, they fulfill a purpose far greater than any they served in life, for their lives fuel our grand design, and call forth our master ! Let the will of the Lord of All be done ! Let the rule of the Corpse-God be overthrown !'

The chanting and the speech together went on for hours, the baleful light of the city-jewels steadily growing stronger throughout it all. I tried very hard not to think on the significance of that – tried very hard not to think at all. My mind sought refuge from the horror in the numbness of shock. I watched it all unfold as if from a great distance, but even that was not quite enough. I shook and wept where I sat as the unholy ritual went on and on, calling out to entities that had no place in a sane universe. And whether that was because of my proximity to the ritual or due to whatever it was that had made me subject to the power of the Call, I could sense it happening – but could do nothing to prevent it. These were the worst hours of my entire existence, including my present statut.

I could see things in the shadows cast by the light of the jewels and the torches enconsed in the walls, squirming, waiting to be released. I could hear whispers at the edge of my perception, and feel fangs and claws caressing my very soul. I could sense power building up in the room, focusing within the artefact, the Beacon. It was glowing now, the blasphemous symbols engraved upon its surface burning with unholy fire the same color as the gemstones embedded in the wall. I knew, now that this was the light of my people's blood being shed across Legato, as part of the Ninth Sign's hideous fulfillment. Enraptured, Nerasmus held the relic aloft, as the chanting reached a frenetic crescendo, and the pounding on the veil of reality grew ever stronger.

'We call upon you !' he shouted, all trace of his composure gone in the midst of fanatical ecstasy. 'We call you into the light ! Come forth, oh Great One ! Come forth and bless us with your might !'

And his prayer was heeded. There was a flash of crimson light, and the first of the cultists fell to his knees, screaming and twisting. Tendrils of flesh burst from his robes, seizing another handful of heretics, and they too began to scream as their own flesh began to hideously mutate, the plague of change spreading through the assembly. Behind the altar, Nerasmus stared in silent shock for a few seconds – then more eyes began to open on his flesh, dozens, hundreds of them, until his body collapsed into a formless mass of eye-covered flesh, the relic slipping and falling down the altar. Everything descended into mayhem at this point, with cultists pulling weapons from their robes and opening fire at random, or instead offering themselves up to the … the _thing_ manifesting through the flesh of those it consumed.

At some point in the confusion, I realized that my restraints were gone – the manacles laid on the ground, looking as if they had been cut by something extremely sharp. I struggled to my feet, moved out of the way of one of the abominations, and found myself staring at the pyramidal artefact that had been the center of the ritual, still glowing with eldritch energies. Without thinking, knowing only that I had to take it away from here, I picked it up, then turned and ran for the exit.

Behind me, I heard the screams of the surviving members of the Ninefold Ring as the horrors they had brought into existence with their meddling devoured them. Such was the confusion, the utter, raw _chaos,_ I thought _,_ that surely things couldn't possibly get worse.

And that was when the song of our world's end began to play.

 _Six – The Eldritch Truth_

I recall only fragments of the following minutes, as I fled through that unholy temple of newborn evil, clutching the relic to my chest. Reality itself was falling apart in that pit of primordial power, and I caught glimpses of times and places both long gone and horrifyingly familiar. I saw the face of Alexander as he beheld Legato through the view port of his flagship for the first time, and the raw greed that had all but consumed him in his desperation to pay off his creditors. I saw him before that, in a chamber deep within his vessel, signing in his own blood a pact with a terrible but unseen presence, and I heard his words, echoing down the millennia, as he damned his soul and those of all his descendants into servitude. Through my panicked flight, I still found the time to curse him, hoping he would burn forever in the darkest of hells for his folly. All of this is due to his greed, his madness. No, perhaps that is unfair. The voice that drew him into the abyss, that answered him when he cried out in the night for something, _anything,_ to help him – that is the one to blame.

Most of all though, I heard screaming and saw death. I am not the most well-travelled soul, but I still recognized glimpses of the other hive-cities across Legato. Whatever madness the Ninefold Ring had unleashed here was having a planet-wide effect. The End was here.

Men and women ran in the streets, laughing and wailing as they killed any who crossed their path, tears of blood running down their cheeks. Spires collapsed as the earth shook, entire sections of the hives falling into rubble. The heavens shone with colors that did not belong to any sane reality. I saw a maimed corpse bleeding butterflies whose wings ended in teeth, impaled upon the sword of the great statue of the Emperor in front of the Arbites' headquarters, and recognized the body as that of the Supreme Judge. I saw the Cathedral of Salvation filled with blood, and heard the desperate prayers of the Cardinal rise to a screeching pitch before ending abruptly.

And everywhere I saw these _things_ , these daemons, rise from the death and destruction to hunt and toy with the survivors. The same abominations that had emerged from the slaughter below were manifesting across Legato, accompanied by new and still fouler horrors. Bird-like claws and long beaks pecked at human flesh, while eyes filled with lies glared into the souls of any who crossed their path. Creatures born from broken dreams and fevered ambitions stalked the streets, dragging innocents into the shadows to fates better left unknown. Sentient flames devoured entire Spires, consuming those within and transforming them into faces forever screaming within the inferno.

I ran and ran, faster than I had ever moved in my life, atavistic terror giving strength to my legs. But I do not believe my survival of these horrors was due to speed alone : rather, it was the relic I carried that saw me through this blasphemous temple of abnormalities. The fiends feared to approach it, and more than once I caught them in the edge of my sight prostrating themselves and making obeisance toward it. Part of me was screaming to throw it to the ground, to dash it onto the stones and break it to pieces, with my bare hands if necessary. But I could not – I was compelled by my fear and other, subtler influences, and kept running until I burst out of the dig site and into what passed for the surface. I was back in the under-hive, and the sounds of screaming could still be heard as the madness that afflicted the entire planet also affected this place. But compared to the temple, it was a safe haven, and I nearly collapsed, still clutching the pyramid-shaped artefact, my heart pumping in my chest, black dots tainting my vision as exhaustion finally caught up with me. Instead, I laid a hand on a pile of rubble for support, and took deep, grateful breaths of the polluted and too-often recycled air. Then, the space before me ripped open in a flash of unnatural light, and I turned my gaze, afraid to look into the depths the disc had revealed, knowing without knowing how that to do so would be to invite the madness within myself. But the rent in reality could not simply be ignored out of existence, for it was a conduit for more than insanity.

What stepped through the opening was another daemon, this one masquerading as one of the God-Emperor's noble Angels of Death. Twisting horns rose from his helmet, which, like his armor, was colored blue and bronze, and from behind which a pair of eyes glazed with eldritch illumination. Symbols decorated his armor like those I had beheld in the temple below, searing my mind as my gaze passed upon them. In his hand, he held a staff crackling with the same unholy power that radiated from him, cold as the void even as its proximity threatened to burn my soul to cinders. He looked at me, and I fell on my knees, not out of reverence but because all strength had suddenly left my legs.

'Daemon,' I breathed out, the word coming from between trembling lips. 'Abomination !'

'You are wrong,' said the fiend, in a deep and cultured voice entirely at odds with his terrible aspect. He loomed over me, magnificent in his horror, and it was all I could do not to weep and piss myself in dread. He continued to speak, and I could sense the anger in his words, the wrath I had somehow incurred with my accusation. 'I am no daemon. I am Ahzek Ahriman of the Fifteenth Legion. I fought in the Great Crusade to deliver Mankind from ignorance. I saw the Emperor, before He fell and was made a carrion god by fools who despoiled His legacy with their prayers, and tyrants who sought to claim it for themselves. I _fought_ by the side of the Emperor, and when He betrayed me and my brothers I fought _against_ him and at the side of Horus himself.'

'Lies,' I whispered, refusing to believe his awful words. 'Lies. The God-Emperor rules eternal from the Golden Throne, and the Space Marines are His ever-loyal Angels of Death. You are a daemon trying to trick me, just like you tricked all the others into serving you !'

'I have seen more daemons than I care to count, mortal, and let me tell you that I am _not_ one of them.' There was anger in his words now, but it was not directed at me – I might as well not be here, for all the attention he gave me. If anything, he seemed to be talking to himself, trying to persuade his own mind of the truth of his words. 'Not yet, at least, and not ever, if I am to remain master of my own fate. Some of my brothers in exile have embraced that fate, or so they think – but not I. I am still human … after a fashion, and possessed of human desires and ambitions. Which is why I have come here, at this precise moment.'

'It's you, then,' I breathed out. 'You are the one behind all this, aren't you ? The one who drove the Governor and the others mad – the one who brought Alexander to this world in the first place, when it should have remained forbidden forever !'

The false Astartes cocked his head, his face, hidden by the helm, revealing nothing.

'I know not of what you speak,' he replied, and his words froze me to my core with their utter lack of empathy, of _care._ 'I have never set foot on this world before, nor do I know its name now. My power is spread far and wide, and parts of it act without my knowledge, but always in my interests, whether I wish it or not. Such has been the case here as well, though I _did_ command the creation of the Keystone you now hold – and will give to me.'

' _Why_?' I cried out, unable to hold back my despair and my horror in the face of this nightmarish revelation – that all this suffering, all this destruction, was inconsequential to the one who had caused it. 'Why did this have to happen ?!'

'Sacrifices must be made for the greater good,' he said, and his voice was so similar in that moment to the Governor's when he had told me of the conspiracy's plans that it was if the two were one and the same – and perhaps they had been, for who could tell what effect the damnable compulsion could have, given centuries to shape its victim's mind ? 'The destruction here serves a purpose whose importance you cannot comprehend.'

' _Sacrifices ?!_ ' I cried out, incapable of hiding my disgust at such callousness, nor desiring to, for it was the only thing that gave me the strength to stand up to this … _thing_ , this creature so much more powerful than I was. I forced myself on my feet, anger overriding my terror. 'What have _you_ sacrificed ?! You are burning my world to ash, and for what ? So that you may have your damned _trinket_?!'

'I have sacrificed more than you can imagine, ignorant wretch. And I will sacrifice more still, before all is said and done. Now, mortal. _Give. Me. The. Keystone_.'

I could feel his will battering at my own, shattering my resolve. Compared to this, what I had felt when the Governor had commanded me was insignificant. For all his corruption and treachery, the Governor had still, at his core, been a human being. But Ahriman … Ahriman was so much more powerful than I – I was nothing compared to him, just as all that I had thought I knew was nothing compared to the depths of lore he possessed. A mere fragment of his being, a shard of his dark, twisted, immortal soul, had been enough to bring ruin to my world, not once, but twice. He had destroyed it not out of malice, but mere _convenience._ I saw clearly then that me and my people were nothing to him, no matter how much he might pretend to the necessity of it all. We were but tools to this _thing,_ this mind that wore an Astartes body, but had none of their nobility, none of their dedication to Mankind. His goals, whatever they were, were all that mattered to him, and he cared nothing for all that he destroyed in their pursuit. He _was_ the Lord of All – and he didn't even know, didn't even realize it.

The realization filled me with such horror, I could no longer muster the strength to resist. I fell on my knees, and, with trembling hands, I held the Keystone up, presenting the relic whose creation had destroyed my world to the monster responsible for it all. He reached out to take it, and there I could sense some ceremony in his motion at last, some respect for the artefact even if he had none for the sacrifices its creation had required. It was important to him, even if none of us were. There was still _some_ part within him that could care.

That knowledge did not comfort me. It only strengthened my despair and hardened my hate.

Ahriman took the Keystone, examined it for a moment under the light of the fires that surrounded us, and then he turned back and was gone. He had no more use for me, for Legato, and thus he abandoned both, returning to whatever pursuits concerned him most. The opening through which he had manifested vanished, the baleful light it cast around fading away with a sigh of utter finality.

And so here I am, in the ruins of all that I have ever known, still kneeling where he left me. I saw Spire Dragleiov fall, and cared not for its destruction, for what does it matter compared to the scale of the destruction ? Packs of survivors crawl in the rubble, preying upon one another, but none dare come close to me. Perhaps they sense the traces of our destroyer's passage, but most likely it is the power stirring beneath my feet that keeps them at bay – that dreadful entity birthed by the foolish followers of the Lord of All, remaining on Legato long after its master has left, discarding it along with all that he has wrought on this world. It stirs, this child of Ahriman's ambitions, not yet fully woken, feasting in its slumber upon the pain and sorrow of Legato's remaining inhabitants.

I do not know how much time has passed – I do not thirst nor hunger, as if the same power that keeps the carrion-eaters at bay also preserves my physical form. I also have yet to find the strength, the will, the desire even, to move, to depart this place – for where could I go ?

Yet in this desolation, there is a kind of peace, though perhaps it is merely one born of madness, my mind broken by all that I have witnessed, by the yawning chasm of unwelcome truths these events have revealed to me. But I believe that peace is more than that. At long last, I am no longer plagued by that distant urge, that compulsion I never noticed until it was far, far too late. For the first time in my entire life, I no longer hear the Call of Ahriman.

Now, all I hear is the call of vengeance against the monster who destroyed my world.

* * *

AN : IT IS DONE !

At last ! Blood of the gods, that took longer than expected. Writing every part of this story was like wringing blood out of a stone. Not sure I am quite satisfied with the result, you will have to tell me what you think. Still, it was an interesting experience, and a chance for me to try a new style. First person is _hard_!

Yes, I know I have been silent for a long time. My new (and first) job takes a lot of my time now, especially since I had to integrate into a new workspace. With any luck, things will be better now, and I will be able to write a bit more. I am still enjoying my one week of vacation, and I intend to write some more while I can - though I make no promise. Next, I think I will work on the next chapter of Warband of the Forsaken Sons. Or perhaps on the conclusion of the Siege of Terathalion. Or perhaps on that original novel I have been accumulating notes for in the last four months ... So many possibilities. But anyway, I AM BACK, BABY !

This chapter was, obviously, an hommage to Lovecraftian fiction, which is something I really enjoy. Though to be honest, I am more of "Lovecraft-lite" person, since I enjoy stories where the eldritch horrors from before the dawn of time get punched in the face really hard. What can I say, I like stories that have a happy ending.

(Yes, I know that my regular readers probably need to recover their jaws from the floor after reading that last sentence. I am aware of the irony, thank you very much.)

First person really works best for these stories, I think. And now that this is done, we will go back to Sortiarus, where the war between the Third and Fifteenth Legions is reaching its climax - something poor Anarion couldn't possibly comprehend. I have everything planned out, all that remains is to write it down - shouldn't take nearly as long this time.

 **Also, Nemris made an illustration for this story. Check it out on deviantart, it's as good as usual.**

Oh, and to the guest who left reviews on my every fic to ask me if I was going to continue them : yes, of course I am. And could you create an account on ffnet, so that when you ask for reassurance, I can give it to you by replying ? That would be more effective.

Well, that's all from me for now. Happy holidays to all, and I will see you next year !

Zahariel out.


	46. The Cruel Designs of Princes

Ahriman burst out of the portal, clutching the Keystone to his chest. Tendrils of smoke rose from his armor, forming screaming faces in the air before dissipating with tormented sighs. The Arch-Sorcerer of Tzeentch stumbled, his body and mind exhausted by the god-like effort of what he had just accomplished. In truth, it had taken nearly all that remained of his strength to force that one mortal who had held the artefact to his will. Though he would never know it, that one man had come closer to destroying the Fifteenth Legion than Russ himself.

There would have been a beautiful irony to such an end, Ahriman thought, half-delirious, as he walked the few steps separating him from the Keystone's awaiting receptacle. On Prospero, the Thousand Sons had been nearly annihilated by a raging, self-rigtheous madman. But the man who had looked at Ahriman with hatred in his eyes had had a perfectly understandable – a perfectly _justified –_ reason to hate him. Even if the destruction of his homeworld served a greater purpose, it was still an act that had sentenced billions to death, and Ahriman had allowed it to come to pass without hesitation. In fact, he would have allowed it ten times, a hundred times if necessary, to keep the Fifteenth's dream alive. He truly believed that such a sacrifice would be well worth it.

 _And that is why you are damned_ , said something within him that spoke with his own voice.

Perhaps it was his conscience. More likely, it was one of the fragments of his mind. This latest act of sorcery had once again forced him to face the fact that his psyche was tearing itself apart with the power of the Rubric. He _was_ damned, that he knew : there was no religion, no creed or philosophy worth the name that would look at his deeds and not find him guilty of the most heinous of crimes. But perhaps, just perhaps, if he could bring about the dream of the Thousand Sons, the Illuminated Empire who would free and elevate Mankind … Perhaps he could be redeemed.

 _And even if I can't,_ he thought fiercely as he lowered the Keystone into place, feeling the tremendous pressure of the energies contained within the Pyramid as he was so near to the center of their great work, _even if I am to remain cursed forevermore, I will not let my brothers die._

The Keystone fell in place, and the Pyramid was complete. Or perhaps it was the Pyramid that rose, and the Keystone that received its missing piece. Reality, always a malleable concept in the Eye of Terror and even more so on Sortiarus, held precious little sway within the Pyramid, and Ahriman's psychic senses were dulled by the intensity of its power. All that mattered, though, was that the weapon the Thousand Sons had gambled nearly everything one was finally operational. Power flowed through Ahriman, power greater than anything he had ever held. Even the might that had been his when he had banished Mortarion paled in comparison. The Pyramid was acting as a catalyst, channeling the savage, chaotic energies of Sortiarus itself so that they may be wielded in defense of the Planet of the Sorcerers.

With such power, Ahriman was at least his Primarch's equal. He could shatter the armada of the Youngest God, still fighting beyond the gravitational barrier of the Nine Suns. He could destroy every Slaaneshi Neverborn on Sortiarus. He could …

He could …

A cold, burning pain spread through his chest, and he opened eyes he hadn't realized had closed to see a long, cruelly hooked blade protruding from his chestplate. And though the top of the Pyramid was illuminated by five suns at the moment, a single shadow covered him and the Keystone both, tall, winged, and four-armed. Even through his helmet's rebreather and the pain blocking his senses, he could smell the pungent smell, nauseatingly soft and spicy at the same time.

' _ **Nephew,'**_ whispered a voice in Ahriman's ear. ' _ **How I have missed you.'**_

The Arch-Sorcerer struggled, trying to free himself from the blade, but this was one of the swords that had felled Roboute Guilliman, and its poison was spreading through his body far more quickly than even Ahriman's accelerated heartbeat should have allowed. Ahriman could sense the venom's crude, vile and malevolent sentience as it tore its way through his flesh.

A pair of white, scaled hands embraced him with obcene gentleness, and lifted him off the ground, with the blade still held firm through him. Unable to resist, he was made to turn, until his agressor stood between him and the Keystone. Only then was the blade removed from his body, grating against his spinal column as it emerged. Ahriman collapsed on all four, agony such as he had rarely known nearly overcoming his resistance to pain. Still, he forced himself to turn, to see his foe with his own eye, even if he already knew who – and _what –_ it was.

Against Ahriman's foolish hopes to the contrary, Fulgrim stood there, resplendant in the power bestowed upon him by the Dark God he served with such devotion he had destroyed his Legion to remake it in Slaanesh's image. The Daemon Primarch still wore the image of the White Naga that he had assumed the last time Ahriman had seen him, back on the bridge of the _Vengeful Spirit_ in the final hours before the beginning of the war's final battle. Bat-like wings rose from his back, covered in scales that shone in the light. Four slenders arms emerged from his chest, each with the strength to lift a Rhino and throw it like a rock. Only two held weapons, a pair of identical blades, one of which was still dripping Ahriman's blood, the vitae sizzling and evaporating as it hit the stones.

But it was the face of Fulgrim that truly drew the Arch-Sorcerer's gaze. As the sorcerous gaze of Ahriman pierced through the Daemon Primarch's glamour, he beheld Fulgrim not as he wished to appear to others, but as he really was, and the sight was not a pleasant one. Where once a noble, if overly proud face had been, now there was nothing but cruelty, insanity, and a depthless abyss of malice that saw all things and beings as toys, to torment and destroy for fleeting amusement. Lips as black as a corpse's blood opened to reveal row upon row of pointed teeth, between which darted a long and purple snake tongue. Scales, scars and hideous rouges covered the skin, and the eyes were ebony pits that swallowed all beauty and reflected only perverse monstrosity back into the universe.

' _ **It has been a long time, has it not ?'**_ said Fulgrim, in a voice like a chorus of children being raked over incandescent coals. **_'_** ** _How you have grown since I last saw you.'_**

'And _you_ haven't changed at all,' wheezed Ahriman between clenched teeth. 'You are still as monstrous now as you were before the battle your Legion's madness cost us.'

' _ **Still clinging to that idea, nephew ? You know it was not I or my sons that brought about the result of our little spat with my father. It was destiny's will,'**_ declared the Daemon Primarch mockingly. **_'_** ** _It was the Gods' design, and we all serve them, do we not ?'_**

'Not me,' growled Ahriman. _Not yet_ , he heard that accursed voice say. Fulgrim laughed.

' _ **You most of all, Ahzek. You have served the Changing God since the moment you first drew breath … But rejoice, for I bring an end to that tedious slavery. And once that is done, I will claim my prize, and the whole galaxy will echo with the screams of the Eye as I rise.'**_

'You think you can kill me ? That the Pyramid will bend to _your_ will ? You are even more insane than I thought. It will destroy you if you try to use it. We made sure of it.'

' _ **The Pyramid is irrelevant,'**_ replied Fulgrim, shaking his head, the motion causing flashes of impossible nightmares as the light reflected in his mane of white hair. _ **'**_ _ **Its power is great, but it is bound to this world and can only reaches to the edges of this system. My ambitions are far greater than that.**_ **You,** _ **Ahzek, are the prize I seek.'**_ Laughing at Ahriman's incomprehension, the White Naga continued : ' _ **You do not realize just what you did when you cast your Rubric … Or perhaps you do, and refuse to face it. You became the cornerstone of a spell that affects your entire Legion. As a result, there is a direct link between you and every Legionary who carries my dear brother's gene-seed.'**_

Amidst the pain wracking his body, Ahriman felt his remaining heart grow cold as the implications of Fulgrim's words revealed themselves to him.

A chuckle escaped Ahriman's lips, and Fulgrim cocked his head, curious.

' _ **Have you already broken ? Surely not. This will be most boring otherwise.**_ _ **'**_

'No,' replied Ahriman, still smiling under his helmet. 'It's just … You understand so very little.'

' _ **Really ?'**_ growled the Daemon Primarch, humor quickly leaving his tone. **_'_** ** _Illuminate me, then.'_**

'You believe that I must hold the Keystone to wield the Pyramid's power,' explained Ahriman, who was grinning now despite the terrible pain – a feral, savage rictus, devoid of civility and nobility alike. 'As if we would develop our greatest weapon with such an obvious weakness.'

Fulgrim's eyes widened. He barely had time to gather his power around himself to weave a shield before Ahriman unleashed the full power of the Fifteenth Legion's Pyramid upon him.

Fire engulfed the White Naga, a column of flame that burst toward the Warp-torn heavens of Sortiarus. Fulgrim was reduced to nothing more than a shadow within the flame, writhing in agony under the Pyramid's assault. There were other faces in the fire, laughing and wailing as they bit and clawed at the Daemon Primarch. There were the ghosts of those who had died so far in the war between the Third and Fifteenth Legions, humans and mutants alike, spending the last of their strength to inflict harm upon the one responsible for it all.

It was enough power to crack the surface of a world, to turn a city of billions to glass. Yet still Fulgrim endured. The Phoenician had drawn all of his power back into himself, abandoning his army to protect his own incarnation. With his skin blackened, his wings burned to charred bones, his teeth fused together and one of his eyes melted, Fulgrim emerged from the fire. His remaining eye burned with unspeakable hate, so powerful it granted strength to his ravaged frame.

Before Ahriman could react, Fulgrim struck with his two swords. Each blade pierced right through his armor and burst out of his back, having destroyed both his hearts along the way. It was a lethal blow, one that would have killed any Legionary. But Ahriman still lived, for he could not die. The power of the Rubric flowed through him, and the spell simply would not let him perish. It was entwinned to his soul, anchored through him into the blood of every son of Magnus.

' _ **You will pay for that,'**_ promised Fulgrim, and the wrath in his voice did not disturbed Ahriman as much as the hint of pleasure and anticipation it also carried. **_'_** ** _I will make sure that you watch as every single one of your beloved brothers suffer a thousand unique torments.'_**

Ahriman felt nothing but pain. He could barely understand the words of his butcher through the fog of agony. The Pyramid's fire had burned out the venom on the blades, but living without a functionning heart was its own hellish suffering. He tried to reach out to the Keystone with his mind, to access the Pyramid's power again. But the pain was too great : he could not gather the strength of will required to pierce the psychic shadow cast by Fulgrim.

' _ **Now, you are mine,'**_ growled the Phoenician, twisting the swords and eliciting a cry of fresh pain.

' **Hands off my son, degenerate,'** said a booming, familiar voice.

Ahriman opened his eyes just in time to see the Crimson King, suddenly standing atop the Pyramid, smite his Slaaneshi brother with a sorcerous blow that cracked every bone in his twisted body and sent him flying down the great construction. Then Magnus was kneeling before Ahriman's slumped form, extracting the swords and repairing the flesh of the Arch-Sorcerer with waves of healing energy, whispering calming words in his son's ears and mind.

At the bottom of the Pyramid, Fulgrim forced himself to stand, seething with anger and incomprehension. Where had Magnus come from ? Why had he not been able to detect the Cylcops' approach through the tides of the Sea of Souls ?

Before the Phoenician could pull his fragmented thoughts together, a thud of something heavy hitting the ground drew his attention to behind him. He froze, before turning slowly to face the one whose aura washed over him, potent and simmering with cold, cold rage.

' **Hail, brother,'** said the Lord of Iron, the great warhammer Forgebreaker in his hand, head resting on the ground. Fulgrim recognized every line of the mighty weapon – he had forged it himself, after all. And he knew well its power, for even before it, like its current master, had been transformed by the blessings of the Pantheon, it had been the weapon that had broken his physical shell, allowing him to become the second of the Primarchs to be granted daemonhood, and the first to embrace it.

' _ **P-Perturabo,'**_ Fulgrim managed to say through burst lips and bleeding gums. **_'_** ** _You -'_**

Forgebreaker cut the Phoenician's words as it smashed into his head with the strength of a meteor, sending him crashing back into the ground, moaning in pain. Perturabo, whose expression was still utterly serene, calmly walked over to his brother and laid his right boot onto his skull, crushing it between the daemonically-reinforced ceramite and the sand of the Planet of the Sorcerers.

' **Magnus told me you would be here,'** said the master of the Fourth Legion as if he and his brother were sitting for tea. Apart from one brief moment aboard the _Vengeful Spirit_ , this was the first time the two of them met since Fulgrim had betrayed Perturabo at Iydris, trying to devour his brother's life-force to fuel his own ascension into a creature purely of the Warp.

' **He would have loved to destroy you himself, after what you did to his world, but I convinced him that my grievances with you were greater. After all, you never tried to kill** ** _him …_** **Probably because you knew you didn't stand a chance, didn't you ?** **Here is what is going to happen, brother dearest,'** continued Perturabo, and finally a hint of the hatred, disgust and wrath that burned within his soul began to show through his façade of calm. **'** **I am going to kill you. Again. And while I doubt it will stick anymore this time than the last, I am going to make sure that you stay banished for** ** _quite a while longer_** **this time around.'**

Fulgrim's eye widened as Perturabo raised Forgebreaker, a muffled gasp of protest leaving his mouth. Then the warhammer came down. And again. And again. Driven by Perturabo's rage and power, the weapon that had been crafted for the hands of Ferrus Manus struck at the brother who had killed him, until nothing remained of the Phoenician's incarnation but a greasy smear on the sand, and the stench of disintegrated Warp matter. To Perturabo, it smelled of victory.

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AN : yep, turned out the chapter was much easier to finish than I thought it would be. I hope you enjoyed it ! I know I enjoyed writing it. This story is still good for relaxation, which come to think of it, probably say a lot about me I.The contrast between the nice Thousand Sons from the Roboutian Heresy and the increasingly distant monsters of the Fifteenth Ascendant amuses me to no end.

Look forward to the next installment !

Zahariel out.


	47. Lords of the Illuminated Empire

The ruling council of the Illuminated Empire gathered in the Tower of the Cyclops. From Khayon's perspective, a few days had passed since the battle at the Pyramid, where not one but two Primarchs had seemingly appeared out of think air and turned a desperate situation on its head. The Necromancer still shivered every time he remembered that horrible sensation, when Fulgrim had held Ahriman's soul at his mercy, and through the Arch-Sorcerer, all of the Fifteenth Legion. Not because it had hurt, though the pain had been immense. Now, it was the helplessness of the situation that had disturbed him. For a warrior used to being able to shape his own fate through his skill, and for a Sorcerer whose very will could shape his surroundings, being so utterly vulnerable was a wholly alien and entirely unwelcome experience. He had vowed, as had many of his brothers, that this would never happen again. Never again would the sons of Magnus let themselves be brought so close to utter damnation. If the Crimson King hadn't arrived … Khayon's mind rebelled at the thought, refusing to even consider what might have happened if Fulgrim had been able to claim the Fifteenth Legion for the Dark Prince by corrupting the Rubric's power to his own ends.

With the banishment of Fulgrim at Perturabo's hands, the Slaaneshi host, already destabilized by the withdrawal of the Phoenician's influence, had utterly collapsed. Eidolon had managed to escape, leading a not insignificant fleet of Third Legion vessels, along with the _Destiny's Hand_ , aboard which that worm Erebus was no doubt already plotting new ways to harm the Fifteenth Legion. But the daemonships and the flotillas of the Lost and the Damned had been completely destroyed, the Warsmith taking a cruel pleasure in slowly tearing them apart with lance fire or boarding them and purging them with bolter and blade. On the _Gift of Thot,_ squads of Legionaries loyal to the Illuminated Empire were hunting the last remnants of the Emperor's Children.

The rest of the Slaaneshi presence on Sortiarus itself had been obliterated by Magnus himself. The Crimson King had used the Pyramid built by his sons to strike at nearly every scion of the Dark Prince on the daemon world, smiting entire hosts out of existence with sorcerous bolts raining from the heavens in a display of psychic might such as Khayon had never seen before. The last survivors had been dealt with three hours ago, with Khayon himself leading the relief forces into Al'Kyreh. There, the Necromancer had faced a powerful daemon, a long, segmented thing with butterfly wings and a human face of perfect, inhuman beauty. While unpooling the threads of its essence, Iskandar had learned that the daemon had been born from a betrayed love among the Imperium's ruling nobility that had led to a civil war, and had ended with a city of millions lost to nuclear fire. They had also made a number of prisoners, including the infamous Lucius the Eternal, whose legend was widespread enough that no warrior had been willing to take the risk to execute him. Khayon wasn't certain what they were going to do with the captives – he supposed this was going to be one of the subjects of this gathering.

Even before their ascension, standing in a Primarch's presence had been an ordeal, as the strength of their personality filled the space around them and threatened to crush the will of any others present. Ascension had only made things worse, and there were two Daemon Primarchs standing around the table of many-hued marble upon which were sorcerous projections of Sortiarus' main settlements. Gyre was covering in Khayon's shadow, refusing to even come out in the presence of such mighty lords of the Warp. She had been … restless, ever since he had bound the daemon Lilith and send it (her ? He wasn't quite sure yet) to his tower to await his return.

Lilith's power was too great to contain within his tarot deck in his current half-exhausted state. He wasn't certain he would be able to once he had recovered, either. Lilith _was_ bound to him, held fast by the chains of the pact, but the moment he had done so was barely present in his memory, as if some other power had directed his mind. Once before he had felt like that : when he had performed his first resurrection, aboard the _Endurance._ Ashur-Kai claimed this was the power of destiny, echoes of Khayon's own future intruding into his present. Khayon had trusted that first bout of illumination, but Lilith's apparent acceptance of her bound – the ancient daemon had not raged or cursed at him, as all before had – made him reconsider. _Nothing_ was ever simple where the Warp was concerned, nor was anything free. He knew there would be a price for this windfall.

However, this would be a concern for later. Now was about more than his own fate. It was about the Legion, the Empire, and perhaps even Mankind. Magnus and Perturabo stood side by side, similar in their power but completely different in every other way. Ahriman was at Magnus' right, and the Warsmith on Perturabo's left. The sons were reflections of their sires, radiating their own terrible power. Both were closer to daemonhood than they had been before the attack of the Youngest God. The Warsmith's infernal aura had grown even stronger, and that had been the only sign Khayon had been able to detect, but when Ahriman had removed his helmet at the beginning of the gathering … There were few things capable of disturbing the Necromancer, but the sight of the gaping void where his brother's face used to be was definitively one of them. Upon seeing (somehow, even without any visible eyes) the horrified reactions of his brothers and cousins, Ahriman had put his helmet back on, refusing to speak of the mutation even further. It seemed the Arch-Sorcerer hadn't even noticed the change until that moment. That, too, would need to be discussed later, between the sons of Magnus and their father alone.

Forrix completed the trinity of Fourth Legion representatives within the council, his Terminator warplate still bearing the marks of the Daemonettes' claws from when he had fought to keep his warsmith's flagship clean of infernal boarders. The Iron Warriors were vastly outnumbered at the council by the Thousand Sons, but Khayon suspected that would change once the alliance between the two Legions was officialized and more sons of Perturabo came to Sortiarus – if the alliance required it. The Planet of the Sorcerers certainly could use the services of a few of the Lord of Iron's architects to assist them in the rebuilding of all that had been destroyed.

Such power was gathered in this room, sensitives across the Eye and beyond suffered visions of god-like beings meeting in council, every word spoken birthing hosts of horrors and setting worlds aflame. Those of these witnesses who dwelled within the Great Eye were able to shrug it off, used to far more terrible sights. But those within the Imperium went mad, turning into doomsday prophets, deluded cultists or crazed killers, while Eldar Seers throughout the galaxy felt the gathering's echoes across the web of Fate. At the time, only Magnus knew of this thanks to his all-seeing eye – but what, if anything, he thought of the devastation they had all caused, would never be known. Certainly those of his sons who learned of it later cared precious little themselves.

The meeting began with Amon giving a report on the current situation on the planet. Though the Slaaneshi host had been defeated, the Illuminated Empire had still sustained heavy casualties. Tens of thousands of mortals had perished, devoured by the daemonic hosts summoned by Fulgrim's ritual assault. Hundreds of Legionaries had also fallen, with the bodies of the Thousand Sons still being gathered for Khayon to bring them back to life once he had recovered from his current exhaustion. The _mortis_ was still being compiled, but Amon estimated that at least fifty sons of Magnus would need new cloned bodies. That would be the task of Fabius Bile, whose own armor still bore the traces of the battle against the Maelat – of which _none_ remained, the Thousand Sons having been most thorough in their purge, though the Clonelord expected to learn much from dissecting their corpses. Such unions of the living and the daemonic were exceedingly rare.

Bile would have preferred to take a few alive for more extended study, but he had relented when faced with the Thousand Sons' uncompromising refusal. These _things_ had been far too dangerous, both to the Thousand Sons and to the Illuminated Empire's aims. Better for them to be forgotten for all eternity, and Bile had finally, reluctantly agreed. The former Chief Apothecary had proven his loyalty to the Illuminated Empire beyond doubt now – or, at the very least, he had proven that he held no remaining one for his own Legion and Primarch. Despite his personal disgust for the flesh-crafter, Khayon had to admit that he admired Bill's strength of will : to go against the wishes and command of one's Primarch, as he knew from personal experience, was no small feat. And the rest of the Legion knew it too, and for that, along with his part in the resurrection of their fallen brethren, the Thousand Sons granted the Clonelord a wary kind of respect.

But while the fallen Thousand Sons would be returned to their brothers by the Necromancer's arts, the warriors of other Legions would stay dead, barring the direct intervention of their otherworldly patrons. Iskandar's trick was hardly the only way to cheat death within the Eye, even if it _was_ , as far as they knew, the most reliable one. And Khayon couldn't help but notice that there were no representative of the warbands from the seven other Legions at the table.

Once Amon was done with his report, Ctesias took over. Though his psychic power had recovered from the damage Lilith had inflicted upon him, renewed by ritual and sacrifice, his body was still wasted, his Astartes muscles hollowed out and his face looking centuries older than before. If this was causing him any discomfort, however, he wasn't letting it show as he spoke of the daemonists' efforts to locate and banish or bind the last Neverborn Fulgrim had brought upon Sortiarus. He took the time to thanks Khayon for his disposal and Zarakynel and congratulate him on his binding of "the Lilith entity", though the old magus couldn't quite hide the bitterness when he mentioned the latter. He advised Khayon to dispose of it as soon as possible before concluding his report.

Then it was Akhor'menet's turn, and the Exalted Sorcerer told of the damage inflicted upon Al'Kyreh. The last of the great mutants that had been unleashed by Fulgrim's sorcerous assaults had been returned to their prisons or put down, but much of the knowledge accumulated during the city's time-lost past had been destroyed. Even with the help of those who had written these records themselves and their students, the work of replacing this lost lore would only be reduced from centuries to decades. And again, Khayon couldn't help but notice that his brothers seemed more perturbed by the loss of knowledge than they had been by the news of their cousins' demise. The Iron Warriors and their Primarch were unperturbed as well, but that was to be expected – the Fourth Legion had always been an hard one, even when its own casualties were concerned.

 _We have changed,_ he thought, _all of us, even if the curse of the flesh-change was defeated. The changes have only been internalized. What will we become, before the end ?_

The Necromancer forced these thoughts from his mind just as Akhor'menet concluded his report, and all eyes turned to the two Daemon Primarchs. Throughout the reports, their auras had remained the same – swirling with energies and images beyond the ken of mere Legionaries, even ones as powerful as the Exalted Sorcerers. Just like Gyre was hiding in Khayon's shadow, no other Neverborn had dared to enter the chamber – even the flocks of flying creatures that usually swarmed the Tower of the Cyclops had withdrawn to the rest of the city, fearful of the Daemon Primarchs' combined power.

' **You have done well, all of you. It pains me that you had to fight for so long without my aid, but it was necessary for our greater goals. As you probably already guessed,'** said Magnus, gesturing at his brother standing at his side, **'my journey to Medrengard went well.**

Perturabo nodded. **'Indeed. My brother has convinced me to throw my support behind this new empire, and my Iron Warriors have already received their orders. Envoys are en route to your territories to assist in the fortification of your strongholds and to ensure the union of our kingdoms proceed smoothly in the wake of the Phoenician's defeat.'** For the first time since the meeting had begun, Perturabo actually smiled at the mention of Fulgrim's humiliation at his hands, a sight that disturbed Iskandar greatly – there was nothing human in that smile, nothing at all.

' **Make no mistake,'** the Lord of Iron continued. **'The war isn't over yet. Though Fulgrim has been banished and his host broken, the Third Legion endures. That hateful worm Eidolon remains in command of the largest fleet of the Emperor's Children in the Eye of Terror, and he will become a rallying point to all those who would oppose our rise. He must be dealt with.'**

' **Yet we cannot afford for the Empire to be trapped in an endless cycle of dealing with one threat after another,'** continued the Crimson King. **'If we are to truly establish a new kingdom here, we must secure such power that none within the Eye will be able to challenge us, and that power lies beyond our prison's borders. Our first phase of expansion is over, for now : we will recall our conquering fleets, and my brother and I shall see to our domains' unity and defense. We are both bound to this realm, and to our places of power, even if we can depart them from time to time. As such, it will fall to you, our sons, to secure what we require.'**

' **Ahzek, you have already given much to the Illuminated Empire, but still more is needed of you. You and the Warsmith will lead our campaign to break free of the Eye and reach the world of Tallarn, where the prize we require lies buried under sands and ashes. I will tell you more of your objective later, but the methods by which you accomplish them will be up to you.'**

The Arch-Sorcerer nodded, and Magnus turned toward Khayon : **'Iskandar. Of all of my sons, you are second only to Ahzek in power. Once you have completed the restoration of your lost brothers, you will lead our armies to hunt down and destroy Eidolon's forces once and for all.'**

'Am I to render the Third Legion extinct then, my lords, ? Save for those already serving under our banners, of course,' Khayon added, nodding in Bile's direction.

' **There is no need for that. It would be a waste of effort to hunt down all of Fulgrim's get. But they must be crippled, to a point that will make Skalathrax look like a mere skirmish.'**

Ctesias was the one to ask the question Khayon had hoped someone would ask, so that he would not have to and risk appear weak before the council.

'If Ahriman's target is Tallarn, then do you know where Eidolon will go ? The Eye is vast, and if he were to learn Iskandar is hunting him, then even our esteemed brother will have difficulties tracking him. The Soul-Severed always was a slippery and cunning creature, and he has allies in the courts of the Neverborn that will tell him of Iskandar's departure the moment he leaves Sortiarus.'

' **Oh, we already know where Eidolon will retreat,'** said Magnus. **'I have been tracking the coward since he ran from Sortiarus. Without Fulgrim to protect him, I can hear his thoughts, every plot and scheme going through his hateful little mind. Part of him actually _relished_ the defeat of his gene-sire and the sensations it sent through every Child of the Emperor.'**

'And where is he going ?' asked Khayon, carefully keeping his voice polite in the face of his Primarch's rambling. Magnus' spirit was spread out across the entirety of Sortiarus, and apparently even further than that, so it was only to be expected that his mind would wander at times.

' **He is going to a small and miserable world, somewhere no one would think to look for someone as famously prideful and flamboyant as he. Quite the smart move, I must admit,'** continued Magnus with a scowl. **'He plans to gather the remains of the Slaaneshi host there, along with any ally from the ranks of our enemies that he can find. You must prevent this, Iskandar. As for the world, it is known to the born and the Neverborn alike as Drol Kheir.'**

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AN : And we are back ! That chapter was actually very quick to write, once I actually focused on it. Not much action, sorry about that - but I like to think that the last line is going to make a lot of you think _really_ hard about what's going to happen next. For those who haven't read the _Black Legion_ books ... Well, you get to actually be surprised, if you haven't been spoiled by the Internet or this very chapter's comment.

I have several ideas for the next chapter, but without spoiling anything, we may very well have entered this particular story's final arc. It was never supposed to get quite this long, though I certainly don't regret anything. Well, I say final arc, but I have a _lot_ of stuff I want to try with that particular AU (especially with the fragments of Ahriman - _so many_ ideas for short stories), so it's probably more fitting to say that I have an idea of how the story is going to end now, though as always that's subject to changes if I get a better idea.

As always, if you have questions or something you would like to see more of (and yes, we will see Argel Tal again in the future), don't hesitate to leave a review.

Zahariel out.


	48. Unlikely Alliances and Impossible Tasks

With the host gathered by Fulgrim broken in the wake of the Phoenician's defeat, the Illuminated Empire set itself to the task of rebuilding what had been destroyed in the brief conflict. All across Sortiarus, Exalted Sorcerers and Iron Warriors fortress-masters directed the repairs, raising new strongholds to face the next attack that all now knew would come in time. Such was the way of the Eye of Terror that no world, no matter how powerful its defenders, was ever truly safe from assault. The Illuminated Empire had beaten back the crusades of two Daemon Primarchs, cast them back into the aether to regain their power, but there would always be those for whom the thought of the glory to be gained in casting down the Illuminated Empire would outweigh the risks.

And deep below the surface, Lucius the Eternal, Chosen of Slaanesh and greatest swordsman of the Nine Legions, hung in the darkness, utterly alone … except for the spirits of his killers.

There were three of them now. Cyrius had been the first – the brother who had finally ended his winning streak in the Third Legion's duelling arenas, running him through before cutting his head off under thunderous applause. Lucius had truly thought that he would die this time – unless Bile resurrected him again, like he had Eidolon after Fulgrim killed him in a fit of pique. But he had come back, rising like some terrifying Phoenix from the body and soul of his killer.

Then there had been Ukarikoz, the Sorcerer of the Eighth Legion, who had sent a host of daemons against Lucius and only moved in after the swordsman had been exhausted by slaying the Neverborn for hours. The Night Lord had thought that by cheating Lucius of his duel, he would be able to dodge the curse that had destroyed Cyrius – he had been wrong, and now he paid the price.

The third and currently last of Lucius' killers had not made any such complex plans – he had been a brute of the Twelfth, whose name Lucius had not known when his chainaxe had embedded itself in his chest in the middle of a pitched battle between the Emperor's Children and the World Eaters. Now he knew it, having picked it out in between the screams of the tormented face that was all that remained of the son of Angron. But he would never speak it aloud, just to spite the madman's ghost.

Perhaps, in the years to come, more would join them, if he ever got out of this prison. Once, he had thought himself invincible with a blade in hand, but he had been forced to learn otherwise. Others would defeat him in time, it was inevitable – but their triumph would be short-lived, the blessing of Slaanesh would see to that. He had learned the details of his immortality, extracting them from a dozen oracles. Any who slew him and felt even a moment's pleasure at this accomplishment were doomed to become the vessels of his rebirth, and join the faces dancing on his flesh-fused warplate, their souls forever bound to his. More voices added to the choir of shrieking ghosts that haunted his every living moment.

The one upside to being imprisoned was that, wherever the Thousand Sons had dragged him after the defeat at the Pyramid, holding him in their kinetic grasp, there were plenty of other voices to drown out his killers'. They had brought him below a strange city of bizarre architecture and stranger denizens, and bound him with heavy chains in a small cell. The screams of the other inmates of this place pierced right through the stone and stabbed at his mind, causing him to experience sensations he had never tasted before.

Whatever the sons of Magnus were keeping here, they were powerful in the ways of the Warp, though judging by the screams, also utterly lacking in intelligence. For all their pretensions of nobility, for all the airs of scholarships they gave themselves, the Thousand Sons had more than their share of horrors and secrets that they kept well away from the gaze of the other Legions. That had always been the case, even before they had lost their innocence in the destruction of their first homeworld. The quest for knowledge was no less destructive than the one for perfection when pursued with the single-minded obsession only a Space Marine's transhuman mind was capable of.

What would the Thousand Sons do with him ? He did not think he had been there long, though time made little sense in the Eye of Terror and nowhere more so than on the Planet of the Sorcerers. No one had come since he had been locked in – no food, no water, nothing. Perhaps the sons of Magnus intended to simply let him starve to death, figuring that this, at least, would be enough to circumvent his curse. And perhaps it would work, too. Lucius had to admit that he was curious about that, and even looking forward to the experience. Starvation was not something he had ever experienced – the devotees of the Dark Prince may pursue all sensations, but denying oneself anything ran against the very principles of the Profligate One.

The sound of his cell's door opening interrupted Lucius' wandering thoughts, and a blazing light shone in the darkness, forcing him to close his eyes as bloody tears ran on his cheeks. After a few seconds, he was able to force them open, and gazed upon a Space Marine in black armor bearing the emblem of the Thousand Sons on his shoulder and holding up a witch-fire in his left hand. Between the armor's color, the silver blade in the warrior's hand and the great wolf-thing stalking at his side, Lucius knew immediately who his visitor was.

'Iskandar !' he croaked, his throat dry from thirst and disuse – how long had he been here ? 'Have you come to gloat over a defeated enemy, cousin ? I didn't think you Tizcans were the type.'

'If you are not here to gloat,' continued Lucius, 'then are you here to be my executioner ? Ooh, I wonder how that would go … We have both defied death, you, for others, and I, for myself. What do you think would happen if you killed me ? Your power and my gift, combined with the Rubric coursing through your blood and soul. What would you … what would we become ?'

'I am here to offer you a choice, Lucius,' said Iskandar, ignoring Lucius' provocation. 'Depending on what you choose, two paths await you. In one of these paths, I rip off your arms, legs, tongue and eyes right here and now, and then drop your mutilated body into the cage of one of the biggest and nastiest monsters we keep down there. I doubt even your gift would bring you back from being eaten alive by one of the Al'Kyreh's abominations; if anything, Slaanesh would be too embarrassed to have you as its champion anymore. Then,' and now the Exalted Sorcerer couldn't quite conceal his amusement, 'I will make sure everyone in the entire Eye of Terror knows of your legend ended.'

'And the other option ?' said Lucius, quietly seething at the threat.

'You join us. Join the Illuminated Empire. You wouldn't be the first son of the Third Legion to do so – even Bile wasn't. There is a place for everyone under the banner of illumination.

There was a moment of silence, as Lucius blinked. He had not been expecting that.

'Well, you certainly are more forgiving than I would have thought,' said Lucius admiringly. 'Alright, I didn't kill Sanakht, nor any other of your own Legion, but I certainly reaped a honorable tally from your allied warbands. Won't they … let's say, disapprove of this clemency ?'

'They don't have to like it, only to do as they are told and accept it, if they know what is good for them. We have all fought against one another at some point of the Legion Wars, Lucius. The Illuminated Empire is bigger than any grudge. It is about forging a new future for Mankind.'

'Always so dramatic, you Tizcans,' sighed Lucius. 'And of course, if I were to accept your generosity, I would need to prove my new loyalty to your empire.'

'Of course.'

'How ? Shall I strike the emblem of the Emperor's Children from my armor ? Shall I spit upon the Dark Prince's sigil and dedicate myself to that grotesque squid you sorcerers worship ?'

'No. You would come with me, under my command, and help me kill Eidolon.'

Lucius smiled. The expression was feral, hungry, and combined with his scarred face, it made him look like something out of the darkest nightmares Mankind had about itself.

'Well then, my dear cousin, why didn't you just start with that ?'

Khayon opened Lucius' restraints with a snap of his fingers, and made no move to assist the Eternal as he collapsed face-first onto the ground. Lucius rose with all the grace he could muster, and looked directly into the Necromancer's expressionless helmet.

'Was that really necessary ?' he asked.

Iskandar turned without saying a word, and Lucius followed, while the daemon wolf kept its gaze fixed on him, stalking in and out of the shadows all around them, not remaining in the same spot more than a few seconds. The three of them walked through a labyrinth of corridors, within which echoed the mournful cries of other prisoners – disturbing sounds that reminded Lucius of the discordant harmonies of the Noise Marines, belonging to both the physical and spiritual realms.

'What exactly are the things imprisoned here ?' the Eternal asked, out of genuine curiosity. 'We have cells like those on Harmony, where we put the most dangerous experiments of dear Fabius and the other Apothecaries, but I would have thought you Thousand Sons were above that.'

Khayon walked a few more steps, as if considering whether to answer or not. When he finally spoke, it was in the teaching tone Lucius was most used to hear from the warrior-scholars of the Fifteenth Legion. Ever had the sons of Magnus loved the sound of their own voice, nearly as much as flaunting their superiour knowledge into the faces of everyone else.

'They are the lost children of Al'Kyreh. When the city above us was caught in a flux of accelerated time during the war against the Death Guard, my brothers orchestrated the genetic evolution of its people over the course of generations. With careful genetic tampering, both technological and psychic, selected breeding and intense training, they succeeded into turning a population of more-or-less humans into the Ascended, a stable breed of potent psykers. These … are those who did not make the transition. Those whose minds could not hold onto their power, and whose psychic might reshaped their bodies into new, eternally mutating forms. They are all mad, and dangerously so.'

'Why keep them here ?' asked Lucius, his hand reflexively reaching for weapons that weren't at his hips. 'Why not simply kill them ? Surely that would be more … merciful.'

'There is still hope that they can be saved from their condition. Failing that, a time may come when they are of use to us. Despite their diformities, they are often far more powerful than the Ascended. Besides …I have been told that some of them simply cannot be killed anymore. They have moved beyond such limited concepts as Life and Death, somewhere between mortal and Neverborn.'

The two warlords remained silent during the rest of the trip to the surface, finally emerging into a heavily guarded antechamber standing between Al'Kyreh and its forsaken children. A dozen Thousand Sons stood guard, their armor and weapons engraved with runes designed to protect them from psychic influence and destroy those capable of wielding such power. Lucius found out that he could somehow feel the power of these warriors, and know that whatever psychic power they possessed was a result of the Rubric – they were not Exalted Sorcerers, who likely were too important for a mundane guarding job that nonetheless couldn't be trusted to Legionaries not belonging to the Fifteenth. He wondered to what such distinctions would lead in the future.

The walls, ceiling and ground were also covered in wards, and it felt to Lucius as if a great weight had been removed from his skull as he was finally freed of the psychic pressure of Al'Kyreh's monsters. Blood dripped from his nose as he gasped in sudden relief, swaying on his feet for a few seconds before recovering his composure. No one commented on his lapse – no one dared.

There, Lucius found his weapons, laid on a floating silver platter. He reclaimed them, sighing in relief as his hand closed around the pommel of his sword – a gift from Fulgrim himself, and the very same blade that had severed the head of the Gorgon on the black sands of Isstvan V. For a moment, he contemplated attacking the Necromancer. He knew that he was fast enough to behead the Exalted Sorcerer before he could react. In a single strike, he could end the immortality of the Thousand Sons and shake the Illuminated Empire to its foundations. He shivered with the strength of the temptation – actually shivered, as his brain sent adrenalin coursing through his flesh.

Ultimately, he sheathed his blade without attacking. Perhaps it was because he had already accepted Khayon's offer, and what remained of his honor wouldn't let him do it. Perhaps it was because there were twelve more sons of Magnus in the room, and they would have ripped him to pieces before the Necromancer's body had hit the floor. Or perhaps it was because he wasn't really sure he could get Iskandar. The Necromancer had faced foes of terrible power and survived – Mortarion, Zarakynel, and that she-creature Fulgrim had found in the Eye's depths.

'Where are we going now ?' he asked, showing what he thought was a friendly smile, but was more akin to the nightmares of traumatized children.

'We are going to my ship,' replied Khayon. 'And now that we are outside of the prisonners' interference and the prison's own wards, we can go by the fastest route.'

The Exalted Sorcerer drew his blade, and Lucius fell back a step, hand falling back to his sword's hilt. Before he could say anything, the Necromancer swung his silver sword through the air, cutting a rent in reality through which Lucius could glimpse the wonders and horrors of the Empyrean, his altered mind capable of interpreting much more of what laid beyond reality's frail veil.

'Why not use a gunship ?' Lucius couldn't help but ask. 'Surely a lord of your stature among your kindred has access to such luxuries ?'

'You said it yourself, swordsman,' said Khayon, holding the rift open with seemingly no effort at all, though Lucius knew all Sorcerers learned very quickly to mask any discomfort. 'There are many in the Illuminated Empire with reason to hate you. Better for the peace that you not be seen leaving this planet. When you have proven your loyalty to our cause without a shadow of doubt … well, at least, beyond any excessive amount of doubt, then you will be able to walk freely on Sortiarus. Until then, you are as much my prisoner as my ally. Do not forget this.'

The Eternal nodded and, without hesitating, walked right into the portal. For a timeless moment, he heard the howls of the Neverborn, felt their claws scratch at his armor and the gaze of the Gods turn upon this intruder in their domain. His power was a beacon to them, his destiny and the gift bestowed upon him by the Dark Prince forever marking him in the Great Game. He may know little of the Powers' struggle for dominance and care even less, but he still knew that he was a key player in it – after all, how could it possibly be otherwise ? He was the Legions' greatest blademaster.

He emerged on the bridge of a ship, with Thousand Sons at key positions and a pale-skinned, red-eyed Exalted Sorcerer at the helm. Ashur-Kai, the White Seer, Exalted Sorcerer and, according to the intelligence Erebus had gathered for the host before the attack, one of the leaders of the Illuminated Empire alongside Iskandar. Gargoyles and masks with vox-speakers embedded in their open mouths hung from the walls, staring in every direction. Lucius noticed that every mask had been masterfully worked, each an artwork in its own right, though from wildly different styles.

He also couldn't help but notice that every Thousand Son on the bridge was staring at him, and that not a few of them had their hands on their bolters, and Warp energy crackled on their armor. He tensed again, but the albino shook his head, and they relented. Lucius walked toward the platform of the White Seer, while Khayon appeared through the portal, collapsing it behind him. The Exalted Sorcerer stared down at the Eternal, his expression unchanging – still caught in that perpetual sneer.

'You will behave yourself, son of Fulgrim,' he said in a voice as dry and cold as a dead star, 'or I will tear your mind to pieces and leave the drooling husk left to the care of servitors for all eternity.'

'You Thousand Sons certainly have learned how to threaten someone. I remember when you were the wise diplomats, always preaching peaceful compliance and the pooling of knowledge.'

'That was a long time ago,' said Khayon from behind Lucius. 'We have all changed since then.'

'Indeed we have. So, when is the rest of the fleet joining us ?' asked Lucius, turning to face his host.

'There is no fleet,' replied Khayon. 'The Tlaloc, Ashur-Kai and my warriors are all we are getting for this assignment … well, and you, of course.'

Lucius stared at the Exalted Sorcerer for a moment, stunned.

'Really ? We are supposed to take down the Lord-Commander Eidolon, Eidolon the Soul-Severed, Eidolon the Reborn, leading the remnants of the Slaaneshi Host … with just us ? A hundred warriors pitted against thousands ? Khayon, what did you do to anger Magnus and Perturbo ? I thought you were the Crimson King's favorite since you learned that resurrection trick !'

'I thought you would enjoy the challenge,' said the Necromancer, and Lucius heard the smile in his voice. A few seconds later, he couldn't help himself, and started laughing. Khayon was right.

'In all seriousness though, why are we being sent on with so little support ? You Thousand Sons were always troublesome to fight, even before the Rubric increased the strength of your sorcery, but this smacks of foolish arrogance, which coming from me should tell you something.'

'The Illuminated Empire's resources are stretched thin as it is, Lucius. But fortunately for us, our mission isn't to sail into Eidolon's fortress and rip his head off his shoulders for a second and final time. We are to deal with the threat he represents and teach everyone in the Eye of Terror the price of meddling with us. That is our mission - our oath of moment, if you will. How we accomplish this, however, is entirely up to us. The Primarchs were very clear that I have full license to act as I see fit in this. I can think of several possible courses from here, and fortunately it will take us a few hours to get to the system's edge. We will use that time to decide a plan of action.'

'I see,' said Lucius, still smiling. 'Well, at the very least, I can tell I won't be bored with you.'

* * *

AN : hello, everyone ! Here is another chapter of The Fifteenth Ascendant. I have been meaning to come back to this story for a while, but finishing The Rise of Ynnead for the Roboutian Heresy kept me pretty busy.

Long-time readers may recognize what the end of the chapter portends, and yes, it is time for another poll ! What path will the Tlaloc and her crew take in their quest to bring forth the downfall of Eidolon ? The choice is yours. Here are the possibilities :

1 : gather an army from the warbands of the Eye of Terror

2 : perform an assassination of Eidolon

3 : summon a horde of daemons to drown Drol Kheir in blood

4 : seek the help (and allegiance) of the Sons of Horus

The poll will be open for as long as it takes for a clear winner to emerge. I will also take votes from the thread on spacebattles, so don't be shocked if the end result is different from what the numbers tell you here. In any case, I have grand plans for the direction this story will take, plans that I really look forward to putting down in writing.

Zahariel out.


	49. Heirs to Power

Maeleum.

Homeworld of the Sons of Horus in the Eye of Terror. Greatest fortress of the Legion that had once stood as first among equal, but was now broken, its glory been lost with its Primarch, its warriors still blamed for their failure at Terra by their brothers-in-treachery and hunted across the infernal realms of their shared exile. It was known across the Eye as a place of quiet (and not-so-quiet) despair, where the Sons of Horus built monuments to their past glories and wallowed in nostalgia while raging against the cruel fates that had seemingly decreed their extinction.

It was also the location of Lupercal's tomb, and the Sons of Horus had defended their father's grave against the assaults of would-be plunderers for years – though with the rise of the Illuminated Empire and the shift in the Eye's balance of power, some of that pressure had been taken off. They had named the necropolis Lupercalia, though most simply called it the Monument, and the Sons of Horus had poured enormous resources into building a mausoleum worthy of the Warmaster.

It was said that the daemon world's very soil was made of calcified regrets, and that the ghosts of every son of Horus who had ever lived or ever would walked the vast deserts that separated the planet's cities. These stories were true, but what they did not tell was that the Sons of Horus weren't the only ghosts to stalk Maeleum, nor the most dangerous to the living. Other things stalked the land, spawned from the Sons of Horus' tormented minds and the psychic weight of the First Primarch's corpse. These Warp-born predators hunted the thralls of the Sixteenth Legion who ventured too far into the wilderness, and formed a pseudo-natural first line of defense against infiltrators and would-be invaders, but they were still loathed by the Sons of Horus and every sentient, ensouled being who had ever encountered one and lived to tell the tale.

Failure clung to the Sons of Horus like a funerary shroud, tainting everything they had accomplished since Terra – every military victory in the Legion Wars, every world conquered, every stronghold raised, every Champion who had shed mortality and ascended to the rank of Daemon Prince – with the taste of bitterness and desperation. Maeleum was mighty, but broken and directionless, with the leaders of the Sons of Horus either dead or missing and the Legion's relics lost, while the Legionaries fought desperately against every other faction of the Eye of Terror (and often among themselves as well), united only by their shared shame, often all too willing to sell their souls to the Dark Gods and welcome daemons within their flesh in return for the chance to live another day. In the Eye of Terror, devils' bargains were all too easy to come by.

All in all, Maeleum was a name spat as a curse by most Astartes not born of Sixteenth Legion's gene-seed, and by a few who were. It was a monument to ancient glories now lost – the corpse of greatness, with some meat left on its much-picked bones.

Or at least, that's what the expedition from the Fifteenth Legion had expected to find.

'What,' asked Iskandar Khayon, Exalted Sorcerer and Necromancer of the Illuminated Empire, 'is the _Vengeful Spirit_ doing here ?'

The Sixteenth Legion's Gloriana-class flagship orbited around Maeleum, as imposing now as it had been during the Great Crusade and the Heresy that had followed. A fleet of dozens of Legion ships was arrayed around it, like wolves attending their alpha. Khayon hadn't seen such a gathering of Sons of Horus warships since Terra, and he hadn't heard of anyone who had seen one since the Legion's shattering upon entering the Eye's tumultuous tides. Even accounting for losses sustained in the Legion Wars, there must be thousands of Sons of Horus in the gathered armada.

'I have no idea,' replied Lucius. The Eternal stood at Khayon's side on the _Tlaloc's_ bridge, watching Maeleum grow through the occulus as the warship finished its emergence from the Eye's tides into the system. 'Like you, I thought she was lost with the Sons of Horus' First Captain and the Talon.'

The swordsman couldn't help but lick his lips at the mention of the weapon that had murdered Sanguinius and wounded the Emperor nigh unto death. Rumor claimed that the blades of the Talon were still covered in the Angel's blood – an irresistible temptation for any follower of the Dark Prince. If the _Vengeful Spirit_ could return from legend, then it made sense that the Talon would too. Among the many reasons that had pushed Chaos Champions of the Four Gods to hunt down the vanished First Captain of the Sons of Horus, the prospect of harvesting that god-like vitae had been one of the most potent, shared by flesh-smiths and thrill-seekers alike.

 _I saw nothing of this in the tides of Fate,_ sent Ashur-Kai from his position at the ship's helm. _I sensed danger and opportunity, as one would expect, but this … the_ Vengeful Spirit _alone should have sent ripples of significance across the aether. Can you not sense her power ?_

He could. The battleship's soul blazed in the Warp, shining with the fire of her machine-spirit's aggression and the shades of all those who had perished by her guns. The _Vengeful Spirit_ knew they were here, and she did not appreciate their presence. He could feel Itzara's own reaction to the greater vessel's attention – a mix of awe and dread. For all the many wonders that had been wrought into the _Tlaloc_ , she was still nothing compared to the Gloriana-class' might.

 _Could the echoes of Maeleum itself have concealed it from you ?_ asked Khayon.

 _Perhaps_ … replied Ashur-Kai reluctantly. _There are still many things about the Eye we do not understand, and our own actions have shook the future's web so many times that I suppose even such an important event could have eluded us. But we should be careful all the same._

As Iskandar looked more closely at the auspex returns, he saw that there were other ships in the fleet massed in Maeleum's orbit as well. Vessels from the Dark Mechanicum as well as cruisers from the Imperial Army were also present – he even noticed a squadron of Titan-carriers. A banner had been raised, and the denizens of the Eye were flocking to it – and there was only one Son of Horus Khayon could think of whose presence could cause a gathering of this scale.

Abbadon was here.

'We are being hailed,' said the Anamnesis. Iskandar sent a telepathic pulse, and the link was established. The voice that echoed on the _Tlaloc's_ bridge was that of a Legionary, and it didn't take a mind-reader to sense the tension and distrust in it.

 _'Legion vessel, this is Maeleum's orbital control. Identify yourself at once or be destroyed.'_

'Greetings, cousin,' said the Necromancer in his most diplomatic voice. 'I am Iskandar Khayon, son of Magnus, master of the Tlaloc, and envoy of the Illuminated Empire.'

 _'We know who you are'_ , answered the disembodied voice. _'State your purpose in coming to Maeleum, Khayon of the Thousand Sons. Or be destroyed.'_

'I came here hoping to speak with the lords of the Sixteenth Legion, but now that I see the _Vengeful Spirit_ , I find my goal altered. May I speak with First Captain Abaddon ?'

He knew he must be, but formalities must be observed, especially when dealing with the infamous Cthonian temper. The Thousand Sons' reputation for omniscience would not serve him at this juncture – it would only put the Sons of Horus on edge.

 _'Answer the question, sorcerer, or be destroyed. Why are you here ?'_

Iskandar gritted his teeth. He had become used to more respect in the Illuminated Empire, where he stood in the same circle as Magnus and Perturabo themselves. Part of him wanted to reach out with his mind and teach the insolent Legionary some manners – but he could see Lucius smiling at him, and he was damned if he was going to give the son of Fulgrim the satisfaction of watching him lose his temper over so meager a provocation.

'I am here because the Illuminated Empire does not care for the divisions of the past, nor do we believe that sons should bear the weight of their father's sins. I am here because I fought alongside the Sons of Horus to conquer the galaxy once, and I would like to do so again. And,' the Exalted Sorcerer took a deep breath, 'I am here because I need your help.'

 _'Come to the Monument, Khayon,'_ said a deep, gravelly voice that Khayon immediately recognized from past briefings as that of Ezekyle Abaddon himself. _'Bring no more than four other souls with you. We will talk of the future in my father's tomb.'_

Three Astartes and two Neverborn descended to Maeleum aboard one of the _Tlaloc's_ gunships, a Thunderhawk which had been mutated into a butterfly-looking thing whose wings buzzed in the planet's dry atmosphere. Khayon had left Ashur-Kai aboard the ship, though the two Exalted Sorcerers remained psychically bound. Should things degenerate, the White Seer would open a portal for them to make a quick exit, and the Tlaloc would depart Maeleum at speed.

The gunship landed some distance from the main complex of Lupercalia, its descent followed by dozens of anti-aircraft guns. Iskandar emerged from it flanked by Lucius on one side and his brother Mekhari on the other, while Gyre stalked in and out of their shadows and the incarnate form of Lilith walked behind the Exalted Sorcerer. The humanoid daemon still looked like she had when Khayon had bound her – a feminine shape in hooded robes, whose mere presence set the teeth of those nearby on edge. For all that she appeared human – more so, in fact, than many purely mortal mutants – no one could mistake what she really was.

During the descent, Khayon had asked Lilith a question, shielding the psychic transmission from his brother's thoughts – which he always did when communicating with her, as he would rather not expose his kindred to the ancient daemon's mind if at all possible. During the journey to Maeleum, the Necromancer had spent many hours conversing with his newest bound Neverborn in this fashion. They had spoken of Mankind's past, all the way back to its origins, and while Khayon didn't believe the daemon's self-aggrandizing claims about her own origins, he still believed she knew more than any seer of the Illuminated Empire – except perhaps for Ahriman and Magnus themselves. Getting useful information out of her, however, was like pulling a Space Wolf's teeth.

 _Do you know why Abaddon has returned from his exile to lead his Legion ?_ he had asked.

 _He is free from the shackles of destiny,_ came the reply. _You shattered the chains of his fate when you and the Faceless One rewrote your Legion's doom, and he chose his own path from there._

 _That doesn't tell me_ why _he is here, Lilith._

 _He is here for the same reason you remain with your brothers despite the pull of your destiny. He is here because the bonds of brotherhood are sometimes stronger than those of fate._

Unhelpful as always. For all the knowledge Lilith had granted Iskandar, she remained infuriatingly vague whenever present or future events were discussed. Ashur-Kai had offered to help Khayon decipher the creature's meaning, but the Necromancer had pieced together enough disturbing hints to prefer that Lilith's secrets remain his own for the moment.

The party was welcomed by more than twenty Legionaries in Sons of Horus' sea-green, all of them holding their bolters at the ready. Iskandar didn't hold their presence against Abaddon. In the past, worlds had fallen to armies less powerful than the group he had brought with him. When they saw Lucius at his side, they immediately raised their weapons toward the Eternal.

'What is that treacherous, honorless son of the thrice-damned Phoenician doing here ?' asked the leader, a warrior who wore a sergeant's markings upon his war-plate.

'I have seen the error of my ways,' answered Lucius, his tone utterly flat. 'I have renounced my loyalty to Fulgrim and sworn allegiance to the glorious Illuminated Empire.'

That actually got a few chuckles out of the Sons of Horus surrounding them, though they kept their weapons aimed at him. Iskandar remembered that Cthonian humor had always been as dry as the sands of Prospero. Evidently, Lucius had known that as well. The Eternal was grinning at his own joke, and the Necromancer sighed audibly, shaking his head.

'He is with me,' he said. 'Please lead us to Captain Abaddon, cousins. We are expected.'

After a few seconds, the sergeant nodded, and the bolters were lowered – though not holstered. Khayon could sense the warriors' tension, their distrust of the strangers in their midst. But he could also sense … pride ? The feeling of despair that he had felt near the Sons of Horus since the Siege was still there, but lessened. Like the Thousand Sons after the Rubric's triumph, the Sons of Horus had found hope again, though they still hesitated to commit themselves to it. Understandable, considering how far they had fallen.

They were guided through the fortress that surrounded the Mausoleum. Everywhere Khayon looked, he could see activity – Legionaries, thralls and servitors moving with purpose, building, training, preparing for … something. They weren't adding to the Monument, though – there were many statues and other shrines dedicated to Horus, but none were still in construction.

 _The sons of the Sacrificed King have been awoken_ , whispered Gyre's voice in his head.

Finally, after passing dozens of defenses, they finally reached the heart of the Mausoleum. The immense chamber had been emptied, but the traces of countless feet on the marble floor showed that thousands – millions – of pilgrims had threaded this hall. The psychic echoes of their grief hang in the air, forcing the Thousand Sons to shut down their second sight almost entirely lest they be blinded by ghastly figures of Legionaries and humans wailing and mourning the dead Primarch.

The corpse of Horus Lupercal laid in state atop a bier in the center of the truly massive room, surrounded by a stasis field that preserved it at a moment mere minutes removed from his demise. In death, the First Primarch looked less like the power-mad tyrant he had become under the Dark Gods' tutelage and more like the noble figure that had inspired countless billions to fight and give their lives for the dreams of the Great Crusade, before they had been revealed as lies. Yet even so, the body still bore the scars of the Pantheon's "gifts" : the veins that showed on its face were black and its head was bald and scarred, the wounds forming unholy patterns on the pale skin.

There was a sense of potential contained within the corpse, as if some trace of the glory and might it had once possessed yet lingered within the fleshy envelope. Khayon was reminded of the last time he had seen the Warmaster alive : on the bridge of the Vengeful Spirit, just before the Nine Legions had hurled themselves at Dorn's fortifications to sate their fathers' ambitions. By that time, Horus Lupercal had been a living god, even more so than his brother Primarchs, seething with the Pantheon's power and utterly devoid of anything approaching restrain or morality. His pride had consumed him wholesale, and his mere presence had been enough to fill Iskandar's mind with images of doom and destruction – echoes of what he might do spreading backward through time.

That sensation was mirrored in the living warrior who stood next to the bier, his back turned to the delegation. Clad in the black Terminator armor of the Justaerin, Ezekyle Abaddon was nearly as tall as his father had been. Though Abaddon wasn't touched by the Pantheon or favored by the Dark Gods as his father had been at the end, he was still surrounded by an aura of unborn daemons greater than any purely mortal warlord Iskandar had ever encountered, waiting for him to commit the deeds that would usher them into existence. Ashur-Kai would have described the First Captain as a fulcrum of Fate, a pivotal points of events and destinies – Iskandar simply knew he was mighty.

'First Captain Abaddon,' the Exalted Sorcerer called out, standing with his escort a respectable distance from the dead Primarch and his prodigal son. 'I am Iskandar Khayon of the Thousand Sons, and I am here on behalf of the Illuminated Empire to speak with the Sixteenth's leadership.'

'I know who you are, Necromancer. Tell me,' said Abaddon, his back still turned to his guests, raising his right hand to point at the body. 'Tell me. Can you bring him back ?'

For a fraction of a second, Iskandar considered saying that he could. And perhaps it was even really the case – with Bile's help and the sorcerous might of the Illuminated Empire behind him, was even this beyond his ability ? But then he remembered what he had felt when the Emperor had killed Horus on Terra. The psychic backlash of the Warmaster's death had spread across the entire Sol system, so thorough had been the obliteration of his soul. No matter how powerful Iskandar had become, this was beyond his ability – and he knew that honesty would be key here.

'No,' he replied. 'I cannot – not as you remember him. Perhaps we could create a new Horus, and with the genetics of the Primarchs, he might even remember you – but it wouldn't be him.'

Abaddon nodded, his topknot waving slightly with the motion.

'I thought that would be the case. If you had lied to me, I would have killed you, magician.'

'You would have tried,' said Khayon, frowning at the First Captain's use of so pedestrian a term.

'Oh, I think I would have done more than tried,' said Abaddon with a smile on his face as he finally turned to face the Exalted Sorcerer and his escort, revealing what was attached to his left wrist. 'Especially with this,' he continued, flashing the Talon of Horus to his visitors.

Iskandar recoiled as the psychic pressure of the weapon hit him like a physical blow, filling his mind with the scent of superhuman blood and the echoes of the primordial murders it had been used to commit. Next to him, Lucius took a sharp breath, while Mekhari tensed against the assault, Gyre growled, and Lilith … Lilith remained utterly still, completely unaffected.

Before Khayon could recover, Abaddon was right in front of him, the Talon raised, its finger claw resting against the Necromancer's chest plate. He hadn't even noticed him approaching. Mekhari's hands moved to his weapons, as did Lucius', but Khayon stopped them with a telepathic pulse.

'One push,' murmured Abaddon, his eyes flaring with golden light as he loomed over Khayon, 'and this blade would perforate both of your hearts. What better way to declare war against your empire than by slaying the one who guarantees the immortality of its lords ?'

'I came under a banner of peace,' replied Iskandar, forcing the words through the agony of the Talon's proximity. 'And I do not believe you have abandoned all honor, Captain Abaddon.'

A few tense seconds passed, with the warriors of three Legions staring at one another, waiting for the other to make the first move, the air around them swirling with unborn daemons spawned by the possibility of violence. Then Abaddon grinned, and withdrew the Talon from Iskandar's chest. Freed from the weapon's close proximity, the Exalted Sorcerer finally managed to raise his mental defenses and shield himself from the worst of the Talon's aura, allowing him to take a good look at Abaddon's face for the first time since their last meeting aboard the Vengeful Spirit.

Physically, Abaddon looked much the same as he had that day, safe for a few more scars and the golden glow of his eyes. But the former leader of the Justaerin and most aggressive member of the fabled Mournival appeared calmer than ever before. There was a quiet serenity, a wisdom in his gaze that had never been here when he had raged against the False Emperor and led the Sons of Horus' elite in battle against the loyalists. But the anger was still there, just beneath the surface.

'What do you want, Iskandar ? What does the great and mighty Illuminated Empire want with the remnants of the Sons of Horus ? I expected that when you did come to us, it would be with guns blazing, to finish what every Legion in the Eye seems to have sworn to accomplish.'

'I am not here to take part in the extermination of the Sixteenth Legion,' replied Iskandar. 'Quite the opposite. I have been tasked by Magnus and Perturabo to find and destroy Eidolon, to punish him for his attack on Sortiarus. The means by which I achieve this have been left to my discretion.'

'And you came here to make us fight your battles for you ?' asked Abaddon dangerously. 'We will not be the slaves of the Illuminated Empire, Khayon. Never.'

'Of course not. If I wanted slaves, I would have raised my banner and called the Lost and the Damned to rally to me. No, I came here because I want the Sixteenth Legion to be part of the Illuminated Empire, and what better way to achieve this than to fight together against the Emperor's Children ? We all remember how they failed us at Terra.'

'You say that,' pointed out Abaddon, 'but you have one of Fulgrim's bastards at your side. And I have heard that that old monster Bile is also among your ruling circles.'

'He is,' admitted Khayon. 'We welcomed him in exchange for his help in returning some of our lost brothers to us. He is too dangerous to allow to roam loose, and far too useful to kill. At least in the Illuminated Empire, we can keep an eye on him, and put him to productive work.'

'He will turn on you,' said Abaddon. 'He cannot be trusted. I saw some of his laboratories on Terra, you know. He is a madman and a monster, even more so than the swordsman here.'

'You have heard of me, then,' said Lucius, bowing graciously.

'Of course I have. Everyone in the Sons of Horus heard how that poor fool Loken beat you.'

The Eternal nearly jumped at Abaddon right then – but Iskandar glared at him, and the son of Fulgrim paused. Abaddon hadn't even moved, though Khayon knew that, had the swordsman actually attacked him, he would have struck him down before he could draw any of his weapons. The Exalted Sorcerer doubted their host would have killed Lucius – the prospect of the Eternal being reborn in Abaddon's body was … disquieting, to say the least.

'The decision to have Bile join the Illuminated Empire was made by those who stand higher in its hierarchy than I,' he said, drawing Abaddon's attention back. 'I have to tell you that if you do end up taking my offer, you will be expected to put any feud you may have with the Primogenitor and the Eternal aside, just as they will be expected to put aside any grievance of their own.'

'And will you make the same offer to Eidolon ?' challenged Abaddon.

 _'No,'_ replied Iskandar, his hand tightening reflexively around the hilt of _Itzica_ even as the word pulsed out of his mind, stabbing into the heads of all those around him with spikes of cold anger.

'Eidolon dies,' he continued after calming down. 'For what he did to our world, there is no atonement. He will die, and all of the Eye will know of his fate.'

'And after that ?'

'We return to Sortiarus in triumph. I present you to Magnus and Perturabo, crowned in the glory of the Soul-Severed's death. If you like, you can give them his head – the Lord of Iron would appreciate the gesture, at least, and probably my father too. You and your brothers join the Illuminated Empire. I am afraid I am not at liberty to discuss our plans for later until you have actually accepted my offer.'

There was a moment of silence as Abaddon considered, and Iskandar pressed on.

'You have accomplished great things here, Ezekyle. The forces you have gathered are nothing to scoff at, nor is the presence of the Vengeful Spirit or the renewed sense of purpose you have instilled into your brothers. But you must know that the Sons of Horus cannot stand alone in the Eye of Terror. Even within the Empire,' he continued more reluctantly, 'there are those who still blame you for the defeat at Terra. I am not threatening you – I am merely stating the truth, and I would rather fight alongside you that see you broken under our heel – and you would be broken, in the end.'

For several minutes, the eyes of the First Captain glimmered as he considered his options.

'If I am to take your offer,' said Abaddon at last, 'I have two conditions.'

'Of course,' replied Iskandar, hiding his relief. 'What are they ?'

'This battle won't be fought with your tricks and sorcery. I won't risk my brothers' lives on the schemes of sorcerers, not after they have already suffered so much at the hands of the Warp. We go in like an army and crush the bastards on the field, and let no one in the entire Eye say that the Sons of Horus now need to resort to cheating or the kindness of sorcerers to win their battles.'

'Acceptable, though we will use our powers in battle. What else ?'

Abaddon grinned, showing rune-marked teeth.

'Until Eidolon is dead,' he said, 'I want you under my command.'

* * *

AN : And here it is ! By overwhelming popular demand, the Sons of Horus were chosen as the ones to whom Khayon would turn for aid in crushing Eidolon at Drol Kheir. Destiny waits ...

For this story's continuation, I am thinking on alternating Khayon's and Abaddon's crusade against the Soul-Severed with the efforts of Ahriman and the rest of the Illuminated Empire to reach Tallarn and claim the power that lies buried there. Expect to see more Fragment of Ahriman short stories, as the Arch-Sorcerer gathers pieces for his latest gambit.

I find that the best way to write this particular fic is to set a destination for the chapter, then just relax and let the words flow. I did start this AU for my amusement, after all.

Nothing much more to say ... Work continues on the next RH chapter, now that the character concepts are done.

Zahariel out.


	50. An Introduction Into Darkness

Are you awake ?

Good. I am sure you have many questions.

" _Where am I ?"_

" _How did I get here ?"_

" _Who are you ?"_

" _What do you want from me ?"_

And, of course, the grand classic : _"Why am I not as terrified as I_ _know I_ _ought to be ?"_

The confusion is normal, I assure you. It will pass soon enough. I should know : I asked myself the very same questions when I was in your position, many years ago, in a place very much like this one. In time, I will answer them all, but for now, be silent, and listen. There is much that I must tell you, and first among it all is a story that will help you make sense of your situation. That story is a long one, and it will serve you well to remember it in the days to come. It is the story of our beginning, and within it are contained truths you would never have suspected had I not chosen you.

Our history begins in a realm of beings so powerful they may as well be gods to us. One of them, the God of Flesh, looked down from his great tower and saw Mankind, scurrying in the dirt, living short, meaningless lives, unable to defend themselves from the many dangers of the galaxy. The God of Flesh was moved by the plight of these pitiable creatures, and resolved to help them overcome their weaknesses. He wanted to make them stronger, but he also knew that they weren't ready to receive his gifts – that, should he grant them the full power he wanted them to have, their minds would break, so used were they to their pitiful station. And so, the God of Flesh went to his cousin, the God of Spirit, and shared his concerns with him.

The God of Spirit was the wisest of his brothers, who themselves were among the wisest of the Gods, and he approved of the God of Flesh's plan to elevate Mankind above the pathetic station intended for it by its tyrannous master. The two of them worked together for a long time, perfecting the Gift and planning how best to bring it to Humanity. There are stories that the God of Flesh was from a different pantheon, that he had turned his back on his kin to join the God of Spirit, but such details are not for those like us to wonder about. Eventually, the two completed their work, with the God of Spirit adding his power to the God of Flesh's own creation so that those who received it would also gain the spiritual strength to withstand it without destroying themselves.

The God of Spirit sent an angel to bring this gift to Mankind, but upon leaving the realm of the gods, the divine messenger was attacked by the jealous entity you know as the Emperor. The bodies of Mankind are weak because the False Emperor made them so, in order to cage the souls of Humanity and prevent them from fulfilling their true potential. The angel's mission was a threat to this cruel demiurge's continued dominion, and he sent his own agents to stop it.

The Gods' messenger descended onto one of the Segmentum's planet – which one is a secret fiercely guarded, as it considered holy by most of our kind. There, it called a group of individuals to it, men and women who had been chosen by the Gods for the strength of their souls. Though they knew not why, they heeded the call of the Gods. Some came from distant worlds, and spent years travelling to reach the source of the call, while another merely had to cross an entire continent. Accounts of how many there were vary – some say as many as fifteen, while others say nine, seven, or even only three. That one I very much doubt, for reasons that will become clear later.

Regardless of their number, these chosen few gathered atop a great mountain, and there they met the Gods' messenger. It told them of the Gods, and then it bestowed upon them their gift, reforging first their souls and then their bodies. But as it explained to them what the Gods expected of them in return for so great a blessing, the heavens ripped apart, and the hounds of the False Emperor descended. In alarm, the angel commanded the chosen ones to flee, to hide from those whose power they could not yet hope to match. The messenger then fought against these creatures, soulless, faceless knights in grey armor, and though it was mighty, it was still brought low by their numbers.

And that was how the first of our kind were created – and how the False Emperor deprived them of the full gift of the Gods, forcing us to strive to fulfill our purpose in spite of his interference.

Notice how, when I call the self-proclaimed Master of Mankind "the False Emperor" or "the Tyrant", these words no longer cause a surge of blind, unthinking hatred in your heart ? That is because you are no longer bound by the shackles of the False Emperor, forced to believe into his divinity. Your eyes are open for the first time, allowing you to see the universe beyond the crude limitations imposed onto your mind by the propaganda and dogma of the Tyrant's slaves. This may seem small compared to the rest of the Gods' gifts, but believe me : it is the most significant of all, and what truly sets us apart from the rest of our unchanged brothers and sisters.

Perhaps you need more details about that – it has been a long time, but I remember that the False Emperor is a rather important part of life in the Imperium. So, let us go back a few thousand years so that you may understand the wider context of our creation and purpose. You have heard, of course, of the great Heresy ? Of the Nine Devils and their Legions, and the Nine Primarchs the Emperor created to oppose them as leaders of the Angels of Death ? Of course you do – I did not choose you from the ignorant masses. There is a core of truth in these legends, but like everything else in Imperial dogma, it has been buried under layer after layer of self-serving lies. The God of Spirit made sure that the first of our kind knew the truth and passed it on – it is one of our most important traditions, so listen carefully as I pass that holy knowledge on to you.

What the Imperium calls the Heresy, we call the Godswar. It was the first time the Gods left their kingdom, seeking to grant their blessings to Mankind and all the other races of the galaxy – yes, even the xenos you have been taught to hate from the moment you were old enough to think. But when the Nine and their sons descended from the heavens, the Usurper was there. The Gods were powerful, but the Usurper was cunning, and he knew the ways of the mortal world in ways the Gods did not. Just like the gods had created nine avatars for their power, led by Horus, the greatest of them, he had created nine Primarchs, creatures of bloodshed and tyranny, infused with his own vile strength. The Primarchs and the Gods waged war across the stars, and eventually, through treachery and cowardly means, the Tyrant destroyed the avatar of Horus, banishing his divine spirit and breaking the armies of the Gods. Without Horus to unite them, the Gods fell in disarray, and were forced to withdraw from the mortal realm and return to their own celestial kingdom.

Many of the Gods lost heart after their defeat and the loss of Horus, who was so terribly wounded by the Tyrant that his spirit has yet to reform in the heavenly realm. Horus' defeat was not in vain, however. Just like his avatar was fatally wounded, so was the False Emperor's own body – but unlike the Gods, he cannot create a new one, and is thus trapped within a decaying shell, entombed atop the Golden Throne. And some among the Gods sought another way to their goal of illuminating the mortal races – and Mankind first among them, for Humanity was the Gods' favoured, and the one they had used as model when they had incarnated themselves.

And so we come back to the Gods of Flesh and Spirit, and their great plan to elevate Mankind, which began with their messenger transforming the first of our kind – those we call the Ancients. When the Ancients asked the messenger what they had become, the messenger replied that while there was a name for what they had been remade into, it was forbidden to share that name with them. For names have power, and should the Tyrant learn the name of the Gods' chosen, he would gain power over them. That is also why we only call the Gods by their titles rather than actual names. Some among us – the least educated in the proper ways of our kind – use the names bestowed by the Tyrant's tale-weavers, names like Perturabo, Magnus and Ahriman, which are naught but the pathetic attempts of slaves to capture a distorted picture of the Gods' truth. Instead, we have made up our own names for what we are – the Blessed, the Gifted, the Evolved, the Godsborn … the one thing all of these have in common is that none are particularly humble.

Not all of the Ancients survived the first years of our kind. They had to learn how to master their gifts, and the attack of the Tyrant's agents had deprived them of the messenger's advice, forcing them to rely on experimentation. Others simply perished of old age, before the treatments that increase our already great lifespan were developed. You yourself may live three or four centuries naturally, but the Ancients' first progeny found ways to make us live forever – though we can still be killed, and the procedures are _very_ uncomfortable. As a scion of the Imperial aristocracy, you won't need to change your identity for a long time, but you should still keep that eventual need into account – by the same token, you will also be under more observation than those of our kind who dwell in the underhives, manipulating criminal empires to our ends.

After we are done here, I will introduce you to some of our kind's eldest and most honored scions. You will need to watch your tongue around them – centuries of scheming in the shadows and the pressures of the Gods' expectations have made them … less patient toward the mistakes of youth. They have endured terrible trials, and are fully determined to still be around when the Gods finally come from their realm to deliver unto us their final reward for our devoted service. One of them in this system was actually present during the times of which I am speaking to you now – or at least he claims to be, and no one can prove anything to the contrary, so we all assume he speaks true.

Do you remember what you saw before you woke here ? Of course you do, it was quite the sight, wasn't it ? You screamed and lost consciousness (don't worry, there is no shame in that, it's quite a common reaction). But this was no monster : this creature you saw was me. Yes, I know : I am currently lacking the spikes and a few eyes. But that is one of the greatest gifts of the Gods : the ability to transform, to leave behind our human aspect and assume the shape that the Gods intended for us. We have many names for that transformation : the Divine Guise, the war-shape, the Transcendent Form … in the end, it matters little what you choose to call it yourself. All of our kin will know what you speak of when you mention it in conversation. Once you have experienced it once, nothing is quite the same anymore.

In time, you will learn to call upon the gifts of the God of Flesh to assume the war-shape and use its power against the enemies of our kind. The divine guise you then assume will be different from my own, though there likely will be a few similarities. Some believe that they are caused by the Gift's transmission, while others are convinced that they are the result of the human mind being impressed by the shape of the one carrying it over the threshold. We do not know for sure, and experiments seeking to prove one theory or the other have been … inconclusive.

Regardless of its particulars, in that form you will wield tremendous power, making you the equal of one of the Tyrant's transhuman killing machines. You will need to be careful, though : secrecy is our greatest asset, and while the war-shape is a potent tool, it isn't a subtle one. There are few things that alert the Inquisition like a human suddenly turning into a creature whose shape is beyond the tiny confines that the Imperial mind is allowed to roam, after all. Should the odious Ordos catch wind of our transformation, it would put them on our trail – and should they learn of our existence and the depths of our infiltration, then the entire Segmentum would burn as they hunt us down.

Oh yes, I do mean the _entire_ Segmentum. That's what it would take to truly root us out. In the two thousand years since the Gift first took root, we have spread far and wide. We are in the Administratum, we are in the Imperial Guard, we are in the Inquisition itself (and should you ever encounter one of our kind who has managed to remain hidden among the dogs of Malcador, you would do well to afford them every respect, for only the most cunning can survive in such a dangerous environment). Our eyes and ears are everywhere across the Segmentum Tempestus, the divine vanguard of the Gods. We learn the secrets of the Imperium, and we play the games of intrigue and betrayal that is endemic to its highest spheres – even if it sometimes requires us to play it against another of our kind. When that happens, the strong prevail and the weak is cast down – thus is the purity of the Gift preserved, and the worthy remain to continue to serve the Gods. Harsh, to be sure, but necessary for the greater good of the species.

Does it surprise you to hear that we are not wholly unified ? It shouldn't. The Gods do not think as we do – they love us, but as a species, not as individuals. They have given us a goal, but _how_ we achieve that goal is up to us, and while none of us would question the Gods' command to our kind, we can and do disagree on the best way to accomplish that goal. Furthermore, for all that we are blessed by the Gods, we are still born from Mankind, and we still share many of its faults – chief among which is pride, made even stronger by the power bestowed upon us. To someone used to being the most powerful being in any situation, used to stand above mere humans as a true scion of the Gods, humility before any save the Gods themselves does not come easily.

These days, there is peace between us at least, but one thousand years ago, our kind was torn apart by a terrible, secret war. The reason of the dispute is not known to me; I think the victors were so ashamed that they did everything to hide the truth of their deeds. What I _do_ know is that two factions formed, each led by one of the Ancients, and that they then clashed across the entire Segmentum. At first, it was all just politics and intrigue, but as the conflict escalated, each side began to bestow the Gift recklessly, creating hordes of fodder to send into battle. Whole cities became battlefields for armies of inhuman creatures, and millions perished as they manipulated the Imperium's own military into fighting the other side's own forces. History books record that period as a troubled time, and the weakening of Imperial defenses allowed many alien threats to rise, but we remember the truth.

We _very_ narrowly avoided drawing the eye of the Inquisition in those days, and total disaster was only prevented by setting up two whole other conspiracies, these ones made of human dupes, and making them bear the blame in the Ordos' eyes. These groups were given rituals capable of calling forth the Gods' minions, and we had to sacrifice many of our best pawns to make the masquerade believable. But it worked in the end, though entire continents were razed by Inquisitors determined to purge what they perceived as unforgivable deviancy.

Eventually, the other Ancients banded against the two faction leaders and pooled their resources to stop them. The factions were dismantled, and their leaders were captured and imprisoned. They still are in their cages today, and will remain there until the day the Gods descend, that they may be judged by our masters themselves. Since them, rivalries and feuds among our kind have become much more policed (we will discuss these codes of dispute later, but I don't expect you to be foolish enough to need them for another decade, at least).

There are rumors that the Gods intervened, near the end of the war, to force us back together and prevent our discovery and extinction … but then, every time we pull off something, there are those who say it is all because of the Gods. Don't get me wrong, we owe everything we are to them and I will serve them until my dying breath, but there is a reason they created us. They need us, just as we need them to be freed of the Tyrant.

Speaking of the Gods – you have heard the Imperial legends of Chaos ? Of the Ruinous Powers, the daemons that dwell on the other side of reality, hungering for the destruction and defilement of all ? More lies, the feeble attempts to contain a greater truth into a framework compatible with the Tyrant's dominion. Just like he called his warriors "Space Marines" and pretended that the Gods' avatars were "Chaos Marines" (as if they had needed to copy his crude flesh-crafting !), his servants conceal the Gods' true nature behind the grotesque masks of the "Archenemy". There are those who can partially see through these lies, but even they are too brainwashed by a lifelong conditioning to truly understand the Gods. And so, trapped between lie and truth, they suffer, calling themselves cultists of Chaos. They can serve our purpose, some of them can be illuminated, and more than a few have ended up joining our ranks – but they are still fools, if unfortunate ones.

For all of the power of our bodies and the influence we wield, we are still but servants to the Gods. Do not believe that we will be the architects of the whole bloated Imperium's demise – such glory is beyond us, and thinking otherwise is more than foolishness – it is dangerous blasphemy. No, our purpose is more focused – it belongs on the world of Tallarn.

Let us speak of Tallarn for a bit. You have heard of that dismal ball of sand and dust, of course – it is a legend across the entire Segmentum. Supposedly, a great battle was waged on its soil during the Godswar. That is true, but you will find precious little information as to _why_ either side was so interested in the world. When the Ancients were granted the Gift, they were also given knowledge of what waited on Tallarn, and why it was so important to the Gods and the Tyrant. What I tell you now, I learned from my maker, who learned it from his maker, and so on all the way back to our Ancient progenitor, and through him, the herald of the God itself.

At the dawn of the Godswar, the Gods brought forth a most terrible and powerful weapon from their kingdom, one with which they would crush the Tyrant's armies and deliver Mankind from his rule. But the Usurper is cunning, and used treachery to steal the weapon from the Gods. The nine Primarchs had been created in mockery of the Gods' own avatars, but there was a tenth creation, the one the Gods call the Serpent, into whom the Tyrant poured all of his deceit. That vile creature could assume the aspect of one of the Gods' own avatars with such skill that the Gods themselves, with their perceptions weakened by unfamiliar incarnation, could not see through the disguise. The Serpent stole the weapon from the Gods, and fled with it. However, he could not use it, for its secrets were beyond him, and so he hid it instead, burying it deep beneath the earth of Tallarn and weaving powerful sorceries to hide its powerful aura. With the weapon lost, the Gods were forced to wage war against the Tyrant's armies, all the while searching for the weapon – but by the time one of them, the God of Iron, had found it, it was too late. The war was already in its end phase, and Horus called his brother god to him for the final battle before the weapon could be reclaimed.

But even though Horus fell and the Gods were forced back into their kingdom, the God of Iron remembered where the weapon had been hidden. In the heavens, he made an alliance with the lord of the God of Spirit, and they vowed to reclaim the weapon and use it to succeed where their brother had failed. That is why, in the entire galaxy, our kind only exists in the Segmentum Tempestus. That is the purpose of our existence, the reason the Gods gave us this great gift.

Ours is a blessed and worthy task : to prepare the way for the coming of the Gods, when their armies break through the walls the False Emperor's slaves have erected around their domain to hide their grace and power from Mankind. When the time comes, we will no longer need to hide : we shall rise as one, and the entire edifice of the Imperium shall come crashing down in the entire Segmentum. With out help, they will conquer Tallarn and reclaim that which lies beneath its surface, and return it to their kingdom – and there, they shall unleash a great working that will forever break the Tyrant's hold over Mankind.

Humanity shall cast down the chains of mortality and ignorance, and be reborn, reforged according to the Gods' great design. And we, their faithful and loyal servants, who will have helped them usher in this new and glorious age, shall be rewarded beyond our wildest imaginings.

* * *

AN : _"We are in Gentek, we are in Blackwatch. Our eyes and ears are everywhere."_

That line from the game Prototype 2 is what inspired this chapter - I just wanted to create a great conspiracy hidden within the Imperium. Besides, Ahriman and the other members of the Illuminated Empire tasked with the capture of Tallarn's treasure are going to need help to fulfill their mission, and isn't a move like that exactly what they would do ?

The next arc of this fic is going to focus on the Illuminated Empire's first foray outside the Eye of Terror. Apart from occasional raiders, the Imperium in this timeline hasn't been bothered by the Traitor Legions for a long time (I will detail the exact timeline of the attack in the next chapter, once I have nailed everything down). This is going to be interesting.

Sorry for those who wanted to see more of Khayon and Abaddon, but I have my reasons why the Tallarn arc must take precedence. Time means nothing in the Great Eye, after all.

Next up will be a short story that's currently almost complete. It's going to be my first one taking place in the 8th edition, so I am quite excited about it. It's main source of inspiration has been the series _Secret Histories_ , by Simon R Green (who, by the way, is a great author you should check out), though I have added a suitable Warhammer 40000 flavor.

Zahariel out.


	51. Return to Cadia

The Thousand Sons' return was heralded by reality's screams as they tore their way back into the universe. At the Cadian Gate, a fleet burst from the shifting, many-hued streams of the Great Eye and into the silent blackness of true space. Legion vessels bearing the insignias of the Fifteenth Legion and its allies were accompanied by Dark Mechanicum warships and troop carriers, as well as a host of escort ships spread among them like lesser predators surrounding their chosen alphas.

There were no Silver Towers among this fleet, for the aether-wrought constructs could not exist long outside of the Great Eye. Instead, they would remain behind, to defend the Illuminated Empire's holdings while so much of its strength went out. It was a risk, of course : should the other factions of the Eye decide to unite and strike at the Empire at that time, they would be hard-pressed to defend it. But that was what seers, spies and saboteurs were for, and the lords of the Illuminated Empire had worked hard to ensure that no such unholy alliance would come to pass any time soon, aided by the fractious nature of the Eye's denizens.

Even now, Magnus the Red remained on Sortiarus, casting his mind into the tides of the Great Ocean to weave destiny to the Illuminated Empire's benefit, while the Lord of Iron commanded the defense of its domain. Fortresses were built to defend grand libraries and halls of learning and research where the human followers of the Illuminated Empire pursued the great mysteries of the cosmos and new and terrible psychic powers were developed and trained. Alone, each of the two Daemon Primarchs was a force to be reckoned with, an incarnated god capable of conquering entire Sectors and drive whole cultures to their knees – together, they were all but invincible. With Mortarion and Fulgrim forced back into their domains and Lorgar remaining neutral in the Legion Wars, only Angron remained a potential threat – and the Red Angel had not been heard from since the Siege of Terra, though some of his sons still searched for him in the Eye's depths.

The vessel leading the armada was newly made, built in the shipyards of the _Gift of Thot_ according to the design of the Illuminated Empire's best shipwrights. It was called _Truthbringer_ , a name that had been engraved upon its prow in one-hundred-meters high Tizcan runes, each imbued with protective wards and sigils. _Truthbringer_ was huge, almost nine kilometers long, its every proportion and angle loaded with arcane significance. Mortal minds could not bear to look upon it for long, even before the Warp and its masters' power had begun to reshape it in the Eye's tides. Its weapons were mostly of the Materium, as it had been built specifically for this campaign. But there were plenty of ritual chambers in its flanks where circles of Exalted Sorcerers and their followers could pool their energies to fuel truly devastating, ship-to-ship psi-weapons. These weapons had been tested during the journey through the Eye of Terror, fighting off the lunatics who had attacked the fleet and the swarms of mindless Neverborn that not even the growing power of the Illuminated Empire could dissuade from attacking. They had proven most effective.

There were nigh a thousand sons of Magnus aboard the _Truthbringer_ , including a hundred Exalted Sorcerers. Collectively, they wielded might enough to rend whole planets asunder. It had been their efforts that had guided the fleet out of the Eye of Terror, past the storm's edge where it was at its most violent. This feat had taken its toll, however, even with Ahriman himself guiding them. Nineteen sons of Magnus now rested in stasis coffins, their brains burned by the intensity of the psychic efforts required of them. There they would wait for the return to Sortiarus, where the Necromancer would return their slumbering spirits to their flesh and raise them anew.

With the Thousand Sons Legionaries came ten thousand of their Astartes allies, millions of human and mutant soldiers, and several Titan-carrying barges. This was a host worthy of a Primarch during the Great Crusade's apex. Sector-spanning dominions had been brought down with half the strength the Illuminated Empire had invested in this endeavour, yet caution remained within its masters' hearts. All of them knew that speed was of the essence, which was why so much effort had gone into the preparations of this new, dark Crusade. Even now, few souls in the Illuminated Empire knew the purpose behind this incursion into realspace, and most of them were gathered on the _Truthbringer_ 's bridge. Ahriman, Sanakht, Bile, Ignis and Kroeger watched the planet of Cadia grow in the occulus, its fertile jungles devoid of human presence since the purge ordered by Lorgar during his first visit to the planet. Craters of the Seventeenth Legion's bombardments could still be seen where the Aurelian had ordered every trace of the Chaos presence wiped out, to avoid drawing the suspicion of the Emperor's watchdogs.

But apart from the world, the fleet's combined auspexes returned nothing. Cadia was an abandoned system, nothing but ruins at the very doorstep of Hell.

'Where are they ?' said Sanakht incredulously. 'I can't believe there is _nothing_ to guard this place.'

The former Exalted Sorcerer had recovered from the physical injuries he had suffered during the war against the Slaaneshi host, but the psychic trauma he had suffered at the hands of the Maelat had left him deprived of the near-totality of his power. He could barely gather as much Warp energy as a mortal conjurer, but his skill at manipulating the Aether remained undiminished, and the Pavoni healers had discovered that this enabled him to hide his aura from detection even by the greatest empaths in the Fifteenth Legion. This was why, despite his crippled state, he had been brought onto this mission – his unique talents could be useful in the war none doubted would result of this.

'It _does_ seem strange that there isn't anyone here to guard against us,' concurred Ignis. 'I know your seers found nothing, but part of me still expected to find a fleet, a fortress.'

'Sigismund's Templars were here before,' said Ahriman. 'He knew we would return one day, even as the rest of the Imperium chose to forget we had ever existed, and spent centuries here, waiting for us. But when the Great Beast rose, his Chapter was given the choice to either abandon their vigil and join the fight against the aliens, or be branded traitors and excommunicated for the sin of leaving the High Lords die. Sigismund chose the first option, and when he died fighting the Beast, the Black Templars scattered across the galaxy in a grief-fuelled quest to exterminate the greenskins once and for all, with no one left to man the battlements. Fools. The Orks cannot be wiped out.'

'I still cannot believe that the Orks could grow to become such a threat to the Imperium,' said Sanakht. 'Has Mankind's might truly decreased so much in our absence ?'

'Astrological charts confirm that around three thousand years have passed since the Siege of Terra,' said Ignis in answer to his brother's question. 'We are at the dawn of the 34th Millennium. You know what we learned of the Imperium's path after the Emperor fell to Horus, brother. We all knew that this … _worship_ of Him would only lead to decay and weakness. This lack of defense is proof of that, and proof that Mankind needs to be brought into a new empire before it is destroyed.'

'It helped that apart from isolated raids, there hasn't been any concerted attack from the Nine Legions since we were exiled,' intervened Fabius. 'The lords of the Imperium have good reason to think that most of us are dead, and the rest trapped within reality's greatest Warp anomaly.'

'There must be some who know the truth,' insisted the swordsman. 'If nothing else, the cults we seed in the Materium and harvest for recruits and resources must show that we still live.'

'Oh, there are,' replied Fabius, smiling malevolently. 'The lords and ladies of the Inquisition most assuredly know of our continued existence. But their Ordos are built on secrecy, and it seems even they lack the clout to station an army here, at the Gates of Hell, without good reason … at least not when other factions within the Imperium conspire to make sure that does not happen.'

There was a proud, paternal smile on Fabius' face as he spoke, and the expression was entirely too disturbing for the tastes of the other Legion Lords. Kroeger, whose soul blazed with the fire of Khorne's favour, felt uneasy at the sight of the Primogenitor's visage – though the Iron Warrior masked it with a short bark of derisive laughter.

'Yes, son of Fulgrim, we all know you are very proud of what you and Ahriman created together. Do you think your little abominations are to thank for the lack of defenses here ? They are in the Segmentum Tempestus, and this is Segmentum Obscurus. Do their influence truly reach here ?'

'I cannot be _sure_ that they are to thanks for this,' admitted Bile with a shrug. 'We haven't been able to make contact with them since we implanted the first specimens with the transforming seed and their prime directives. Still, it makes sense, does it not ?'

'I suppose it does,' replied Kroeger before frowning. 'Though it troubles me that we haven't made contact with our supposed allies behind enemy lines. We don't know how many there are, or what resources they possess. Do we at least have a timeline for how long these … infiltrators have been operating in the Imperium ? I still can't believe it's been _three thousand years_ since we left …'

'According to my calculations,' answered Ahriman, 'my psychic sending reached the first specimens about two thousand years from our current time period. Our agents will have had time to thoroughly infiltrate the Imperial structure in the Segmentum. But regardless, you can't move a fleet that size without being noticed. No matter what stratagems we employ to hide our wake in the Warp, the Imperium will pick it up eventually. It is only a matter of time.'

'Our only concern is Tallarn, and what lies beneath its surface,' said Ignis, bringing up a map of the galaxy on the main hololith. 'We will keep to the hidden paths of the Warp, where only our navigators dare to thread, and cross the Segmentum Pacificus without emerging from the Empyrean at all. As long as we stay out of the Segmentum Solar, we should remain unnoticed.'

But the lords of the Illuminated Empire were wrong. There was something left to guard the Cadian Gate : a small, automated station, held in the planet's orbit. It watched as the fleet emerged from the Eye of Terror, scanning every ship in the armada before it entered the Warp once more. It took pictures and recorded broadcast identifiers and Warp emanations. Using devices cannibalized from the Dark Age of Technology, it then sent its compiled findings across space with near-instantaneous speed, and none of the tech-adepts and psykers of the Thousand Sons detected the transmission.

One and a half Segmentum away, an alarm started in the depths of an Inquisitorial stronghold. After several minutes of insistent ringing, a man in a black cloak, wearing the stylised "Iˮ on his breast, entered the sealed room and approached the machine responsible. He looked at the message printed on a single band of parchment, detailing the numbers and size of the ships that had emerged from the Eye of Terror. He memorized them by heart, and then, he burned the parchment to ash with a bone-encrusted lighter, before drawing a bolt pistol from his hip and firing at the machine until nothing was left of the priceless archeotech device but a sparking pile of scrap.

The Inquisitor left the room with a smile on his lips. After millennia of waiting, the hour had come at last. The gates of the Eye had opened, and its lords had returned into the material universe.

His brothers and sisters of the Gifted had to be told.

And at the same time, on the moon-fortress of Titan, a lord in silver armor opened his eye, looked up through the ceiling of his chamber at something impossibly distant, and shed a single tear.

* * *

AN : The plot thickens ...

Yes, we have left Khayon and Abaddon to focus on the Black Crusade to Tallarn. You know, for some reason I was convinced Tallarn was in the same Segmentum as Cadia (even though Cadia is _clearly_ in the Segmentum Obscurus, and I mentioned Tallarn's Segmentum in the very last chapter ...). I had to make some hasty corrections to that chapter when a bit of research showed me the distance between the two planets.

And yes, Sigismund is dead. I won't go into the details of how the War of the Beast unfolded in this timeline - that isn't important to the story, which is focused on the Fifteenth Legion and what being granted what seems like the greatest boon will lead to.

For the continuation of this story, I am not sure whether to write all of the Tallarn arc first or do alternate chapters between this and Khayon's war against Eidolon in the Eye of Terror. What do you think I should do ?

Alright, back to the writing board now. The next chapter of the RH won't write itself ...

Zahariel out.


	52. To Meet One's Maker

After a thousand and a half years of relative peace following the death of the Beast at Ullanor, war had come to the Imperium once more.

Across the entire Segmentum, the shape-shifters began their campaign of sabotage and chaos. Armies were thrown against one another on fabricated proofs of treachery, shipyards' reactors detonated, ships bringing food to hive-worlds were stopped, and dark rites performed on a thousand worlds. Cults of Chaos that had remained hidden for hundreds of years suddenly went on rampages, striking back at those who had oppressed them for centuries. And in the halls of power, Imperial leadership was crippled as some of its members turned into horrific monsters and butchered their colleagues – or, worse, turned them into fiends like them.

An entire Segmentum burned in the fires of rebellion and heresy, as a scheme two millennia in the making finally reached completion. Thousands of worlds cried out, their astropathic calls for aid echoing across the Empyrean – and the Imperium answered. Fleets and armies were turned from their xenos-purging wars. Whole Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes mobilized. On distant Terra, the High Lords convened in extraordinary session and declared a new Crusade to free the Segmentum Tempestus from the dark forces that had risen within it. A few weeks after the first spark of destruction, the first reinforcements joined the battle against the shape-shifters' puppets. The wheels of Imperial bureaucracy may be slow to turn, but when they did, it was with unstoppable momentum and the unrelenting strength of the greatest empire Mankind had ever created.

Billions had already died and billions more would perish before all heresy was expunged with blade and fire. Yet all of this was but a diversion, and very few shape-shifters remained to face the hammer of Imperial retribution. The immense majority of them had left for Tallarn, where they would meet their Gods at long, long last. For centuries, the shape-shifters had stayed away from Tallarn, out of a combination of wanting to avoid drawing attention to the world and fear of its population faith and strength. They had studied it, gathered intelligence on its defenses and profiles of its defenders, but none of them had ever gone to Tallarn in person. It was forbidden, by order of the Ancients themselves. But that was over now.

In their hidden strongholds, the Ancients called their progeny to them, gathering hosts of monsters to bring to Tallarn and meet their Gods at last. They came by the hundreds, to fight in a war many had awaited for centuries, and the energies of the Warp swelled within their transports in answer to the gathering of so many monstrous souls. They went to Tallarn to fulfill their race's destiny, and the Ruinous Powers watched, and laughed, for they knew what was to come.

While their servants wreaked havoc in their name, the lords of the Illuminated Empire sailed the galaxy, unseen and undetected. The passage of the Black Crusade through the Warp was far from tranquil. The Eye of Terror was inimical to all life, but the Thousand Sons navigators had learned to sail it. The power of the Rubric and the blessing of the Changing God had helped them somewhat tame the Warp Storm's rage. But outside the Eye, the blessings of Tzeentch were diminished, the Empyrean shaped by the thoughts and beliefs of a trillion Imperial souls. The light of the Astronomican scoured their sorcery-marked hulls, and the laws of physic slowly broke down their more esoteric upgrades.

That was why the Illuminated Empire's fleet had to journey in the deepest, darkest paths of the Great Ocean, where no Imperial Navigator would dare to look. There were things dwelling there, Neverborn spawned in ancient times by the dreams of species so alien in their mindset none lived who could comprehend them. Most of these entities were too vast and apathetic to care for the intruders in their domain, but several ships were still lost to the jaws of the leviathans. The soul-sparks of the fleet roused them from their slumber, and for all their alien origins, their were still daemons : cruel, vicious, and hungry for souls.

And these losses were but the most immediate effect of the armada's passage. Though the fleet could not be detected, it still left a trail of nightmares and madness in its wake as the disturbed leviathans stirred and sent their alien thoughts into the souls of susceptible mortals. Segmentum Obscurus would be troubled by madmen and prophets of doom for years to come, and the Ordo Malleus would have its job cut out for it to prevent cults from waking the slumbering monstrosities.

Still, with Ahriman leading them, the Chaos fleet eventually reached its destination. It emerged into the Tallarn system one year of real time after its passage of Cadia. Upon their arrival, the forces of the Illuminated Empire found the system had already been the theater of a brutal and merciless void war. The fleet gathered by their shape-shifter pawns had arrived ahead of them, and had crushed the system's defense fleet. They had held back from launching an invasion of Tallarn itself, waiting for the arrival of their Gods – or perhaps still fearful of the old edicts that had bound them for so long.

A sense of quiet despair and resignation fell upon Tallarn as the new Chaos fleet appeared on its defenders' sensors, quickly replaced by burning determination. The Imperium may have all but forgotten the Traitor Legions, but Tallarn had not. Its people remembered the terrible war that had ruined their world during the Horus Heresy, when the Iron Warriors had come to what had then only been a backwater world, a nearly abandoned muster point for the Great Crusade, for reasons none understood. The horrors of that conflict lived on in stories passed from parents to children, in the sermons of firebrand priests, and in the secret archives of the Planetary Government. If not for the planet's legendary loyalty, the Inquisition would have objected to that knowledge long ago, but orders written at the Ordo's founding forbade such suppression on Tallarn. In the years to come, many would wonder if this was because the founders had known about Tallarn's secret.

The defenders of Tallarn recognized the iconography of the Iron Warriors on Kroeger's ship, and they knew then that the enemies of their ancestors had returned to finish what they had started. But they were ready to fight, and the Traitor Marines' arrival changed nothing. They had sent calls for help and had been assured that it was on its way, even with the chaos reigning across the Segmentum. All they had to do was hold until it arrived – and holding against superior forces was something the people of Tallarn were very good at.

But before the Chaos forces launched their attack, there was another item of business the lords of the Illuminated Empire had to take care of first. After two thousand years, the shape-shifters were eager to finally meet their creators.

The meeting took place aboard the _Truthbringer,_ in a chamber specially prepared for it. It was lavishly decorated, with an ostentatiousness that was at odds with Ahriman's tastes, but fitted the occasion perfectly. Ahriman and Bile sat on chairs of silver and black metal, surrounded by trophies claimed in the Illuminated Empire's wars of expansion and gifted to the Arch-Sorcerer by Legion warlords seeking his favor. There were Legion relics, skeletons from impossible beasts, and all manners of riches and artwork, from jewelry shaped in the form of a heart's desire to a painting that always showed something different every time you looked at it. Many of the exhibits were trapped within their own small stasis field, or surrounded by wards (both to keep the galaxy's physical laws from destroying them, and the other way around). The walls were lined with towering statues of things that only partially existed in three dimensions, terrible entities captured within the Eye of Terror and bound within this chamber. Ahriman knew the words of power that could free each of them from their immobility and unleash them upon whoever was foolish enough to defy him _here_.

Both Ahriman and Bile wore their armor. There was a new cloak of stitched faces over Bile's, made from the flayed faces of the Maelat the son of Fulgrim had killed at the foot of the Pyramid on Sortiarus. Just being close to the morbid garment was enough to set Ahriman's teeth on edge, as if something of the xenos aberrations' psychic-void still clung to it. And while Bile was barefaced, Ahriman wore his helmet, to hide the gaping void that had become his face. The Legion's silversmiths had offered to fashion him a mask, in the image of the face he had before, but he had refused, troubled by prophecies and infernal promises. In time, perhaps he would take them onto their offer, but for now, his horned helm would suffice.

The delegation of the shape-shifters looked at the wonders on display, and the adoration in their gaze when they looked at him unnerved Ahriman greatly. Nineteen of them had come, all in human form and clad in elegant clothes, with all emblems of Imperial allegiance removed. They had brought two floating stasis caskets with them, each pushed by a pair of shape-shifters who kept glancing at their charges nervously. The rest were spread out in five groups of three, walking side by side down the large carpet. Each group was led by one of the Ancients, the first to have been raised from baseline humanity into something more. Ahriman felt what passed for grief in Bile's soul as the Clonelord understood that more than half of their original creations had perished, if these were all the survivors of the original batch.

Men and women, young and old, the Ancients looked exactly like they had on the day they had been bestowed their Gift by Ahriman's psychic construct. But that similarity was only skin-deep, and wouldn't have fooled anyone. The way they moved, and more importantly, the look in their eyes, betrayed their inhuman and ageless nature. These were beings who had lived for two millennia, without suffering from the time dilation of the Empyrean and not trusting their servants enough to enter stasis to wait for their masters' arrival. They had survived the Imperium's first and only attempt to exterminate their kind, and whatever humanity they had still possessed after being reborn had long since been shed off.

Even in their human forms, there was no mistaking the power the Ancients possessed. Whatever their bodies looked like had long since become irrelevant, to them and to anyone who mattered. Ahriman could feel the strength of their souls, grown mighty through the centuries, burning with dark ambition and terrible hungers, and some small, distant part of him wondered what Bile and him had created, and whether they could still control it.

The first round of vox transmissions to set up the meeting, combined with a few quick and discreet probes of the shape-shifters' thoughts aboard their vessels, had already revealed much about the creatures' "culture" and beliefs that Ahriman found quite disturbing. They thought of their creators as gods, and of themselves as chosen to be the first of Mankind's next evolutionary step. They had found how to make themselves truly ageless, as opposed to the extended lifespan that Bile had bred into them and which had always been intended as part of their design. An army of immortal monsters, capable of transforming other humans into more of their own … suddenly the genetically enforced loyalty to their makers didn't seem so callous to the Arch-Sorcerer. What could they have accomplished, had they not been fettered by that loyalty and the orders passed on from one generation to the next ?

Ahriman kept these doubts well hidden within himself. He and Bile had discussed longly about what they would do when finally meeting their creations face-to-face (or at least, in his case, in person), and he could not afford to show any weakness. Their goal here was too important to be jeoparded by his personal feelings. The shape-shifters may be strong, and the Ancients strongest of all of them, but he was Ahzek Ahriman, First Captain of the Thousand Sons, Lord of the Rubric, and one of their kind's creators. And what he had made, he could unmake, if it became necessary. For all the strength Ahriman had no doubt the Ancients' war-shapes possessed, he knew none of them could match his sorcery in battle. But he hoped it wouldn't come to that. Disturbing as they might be, the shape-shifters had already served the Illuminated Empire well with their campain of infiltration and sabotage. Besides, there were far worse things on Sortiarus, many of them acknowledged citizens. The shape-shifters would fit right in in Al'kyreh … or perhaps they would build their own city on the Planet of the Sorcerers. There were certainly enough of them aboard their ships – neither Ahriman nor Bile had really expected their creations to grow to such numbers.

The monstrous progeny of the Illuminated Empire stopped at the foot of their makers' thrones and fell to their knees.

'Greetings, my children,' said Fabius, in the same paternal tone of voice he used whenever he spoke with the things born in his laboratories and which was known to unnerve even the most cold-hearted warriors of the Legion. 'Long have I waited to see you with my own eyes. We hid our names from you, all these years ago, but the time for such secrecy is over. I am Fabius Bile, and it was I who designed your flesh to that it may hold the power that my friend Ahzek Ahriman here – he gestured at the Arch-Sorcerer – 'created in the Eye of Terror.'

'You are the Gods of Spirit and Flesh,' replied one of the Ancients, who looked like a young woman with a pretty face, short blond hair, and blue eyes that knew nothing of humanity anymore. 'We can all sense it in our soul. You … you are our makers.'

'We are,' said Ahriman, his voice as cold as Fabius' was warm. 'I reached out from the Great Eye and made you into what you are with my cousin's help. You kneel before me now, but I count only five, where I made thirteen. Six died in the early days of your kind, slaughtered by the agents of the False Emperor – but tell me, children of my work, why are the other two imprisoned in stasis ?'

'These are those of us who failed your great vision, my lords,' answered the woman. 'They let their own ambitions consume them, and turned their power against each other. The Imperium shook with the blows of their battle, and they nearly exposed our existence to the slaves of the False Emperor. We ended their war and captured them, to await your judgement – for only you have the right to judge your direct creation. Most of their progeny was destroyed, either in the feud itself or by us afterwards, to punish them and prevent them from trying to free their masters. Some proved their loyalty to the cause, and were accepted into the ranks of the other lineages.'

'I see,' said Bile, looking at the stasis coffins with cold, calculating eyes. He was already thinking about the tests he would run on them, to see how the Gift had evolved over the centuries. 'You have done well. I will personally ensure that they atone for their failings.'

The Ancients smiled at the Child of the Emperor's praise. Ahriman would have scowled if there had still been a face under his helm. This … adoration, it was distateful. Useful, to be sure, but distateful all the same. Still, he would endure it, if it helped them fulfill their mission. He would even play his part, and shape his words to play into the mythology they had built around their existence. He had to admit that it was interesting to see how the shape-shifters had created their own creation myth. Many of his brothers looked forward to learning more about it.

'We have come together at last,' said the Lord of the Rubric, 'and your people have done well. We have heard the echoes of your deeds across the Segmentum, and we are pleased with your work. But now, it is time for your people to fulfill their true purpose, and fight at our side as we descend upon Tallarn to reclaim that which is hidden beneath its sands. Though you have delayed them, the servants of Terra are already on their way, and we must make haste, or all will be lost, and we shall be forced to wait another turn of the Wheel of Ages.'

'To Tallarn, and to war !' he declared, and the Ancients and their progeny shouted his words back.

* * *

AN : Back to this story ! I took a break from the RH and wrote this. Next up, the war for Tallarn begins, and the Gods' laughter is explained.

The next RH chapter is up to ten thousand words now, but there is still a lot to write down, including some of the really good stuff. I also want to write down the two short story submissions I sent to the Black Library, so even though I am writing a lot these days, it will be a while before I have something else to publish.

Oh, and does anyone know any good vampire fiction to recommend ? Not the romance stuff, dear Gods no, but something with schemes and plots spanning centuries, and the intrigues of the undead against one another as the ages turn ? I am hungry for that kind of stuff right now, but I haven't found anything. Last time something like that happened ... well, I started writing as a hobby, but this time I already have too many ongoing projects. I cannot split my attention further, so I would be grateful if you could tell me of something that can scratch that particular itch.

I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please leave a comment telling me what you enjoyed and what you didn't, and if you have questions or ideas, don't hesitate !

Zahariel out.


	53. The Face of Judgment

" _People of Tallarn, people of the Imperium, hear us._

 _We are the Illuminated Empire. Cast out from the galaxy, exiled into the Eye of Terror, we have reforged ourselves into a new kingdom, free from the shackles that still hold you into bondage._

 _We have watched as the Imperium we bled to build was eaten from the inside by corruption and decay, as the dream of illumination died in the name of convenience. All to preserve the power of a handful of usurpers sitting on their thrones, in the hallowed halls of the Imperial Palace._

 _We have watched as the Imperium betrayed the very principles upon which it was founded, rejecting truth and embracing ignorance and superstition out of fear and weakness._

 _We have watched, and wept for all that has been lost. And now, we have returned._

 _We will bring low this twisted empire, this pale reflection of what should have been. We will drag Mankind into a new golden age of knowledge and power like none before, even if we have to do it by force. In the Great Eye, we learned the truth of the universe, and we will share it with all of Humanity, that they may be freed from their chains of lies and join us in our glory._

 _Like us, you will be reborn, remade into a new form fit to survive in a galaxy filled with horrors and threats. Like us, you shall claim the power that is Mankind's birthright._

 _And all who oppose us shall be crushed._

 _Our cause is just, for the Imperium can no longer keep its promise to safeguard the future of Mankind. The Orks proved how fragile the dominion of the False Emperor has become, and we won't allow the species to continue on its current path. Our destiny shall not be denied us._

 _We have come to this benighted world to stake our claim in Mankind's future. Try and stop us if you will, but you will not succeed. Tallarn will be ours, as will the entire galaxy. Join us and rejoice; fight us and suffer. Such is the choice you now face, the same as was offered in the first Crusade.ˮ_

Such was the sole transmission sent to Tallarn before the invasion began. It was also the formal declaration of war between the Illuminated Empire and the Imperium of Man, and would eventually find its way to Terra and the Council of the High Lords. It was spoken by the voice of Ahzek Ahriman, Arch-Sorcerer of Tzeentch and Lord of the Rubric, whose pride and will were unmatched across all of the forces gathered to break Tallarn and claim what laid beneath its sands. It was spoken from the bridge of the _Truthbringer_ , that new abomination born of the greatest minds to ever sell their souls to darkness, and one vox-receiver out of every hundred that received it directly became infected with the madness of the Warp and erupted in eldritch flames within which screaming faces could be glimpsed.

A single volley from the Chaos fleet crippled Tallarn's orbital defenses, with the _Truthbringer's_ guns sending its main space station crashing to the surface in flames. Its fall in the desert turned the sand to glass for kilometers around the impact point, and the tremors were felt all across the globe. The main cities were still defended by powerful cannons, but the vast deserts were open for landing. With nothing left to stand in its way, the Black Crusade descended upon Tallarn like the wrath of the Dark Gods, and the Warp seethed with violence and death all around the planet.

Vast armies made planetfall and immediately set off for Tallarn's cities, each a stronghold built to endure on the desert planet, and the war began in earnest. Armoured tanks clashed with Dark Mechanicum engines, and the Thousand Sons summoned the memories of Tallarn's past horrors to stalk its people once more. Circles of Sorcerers reached deep into Time, and brought forth the phantoms of those who had perished on the sands of the desert world.

Though Tallarn had survived in a new form, the planet's past had still been murdered by the Iron Warriors when they had attacked the planet during the Heresy, and there were ghosts aplenty to raise from the sands. Warriors from many Legions had come to take part in the battle of Tallarn, even if very few had ever known why it was being fought at all. The planet's fierce dedication to the worship of the God-Emperor had kept these wraiths from manifesting, but the Exalted Sorcerers called to them now even as the very presence of the Black Crusade's host thinned the veil between reality and the Warp, and they rose, passing through the walls and causing mayhem and insanity in one terrible night – and as the dawn came, so did the more physical servants of Chaos.

Hordes of shape-shifters scaled the cities' walls, shrugging off all but the most focused las-fire. They had received strict order to capture the cities rather than wipe them out, but the creations of Bile and Ahriman were still creatures of Chaos, and they indulged in their cruel instincts, leaving trails of broken bodies and minds in their wake, using terror to break their enemies' will to resist. The Ancients didn't take part in those massacres : the Illuminated Empire was holding them in reserve, their seers having foretold that they would have a greater part to play. Instead, the five Ancients went with Ahriman, to find that for which Tallarn had burned, many years ago.

Kroeger of the Iron Warriors had been one of the Trident during the first Battle of Tallarn, one of the few Perturabo had trusted with full knowledge of why the Fourth Legion was fighting. The exact location of their target was unknown to him – the Iron Warriors had been recalled by Horus Lupercal before they had been able to uncover their prize, else the war would have ended very differently indeed – but he brought what he remembered of their research to the table. Combining these insights with their divination, the Thousand Sons were able to locate their target within an area of less than a hundred square kilometers, in the middle of one of the planet's greatest deserts, hundreds of kilometers from the most remote outpost.

While the war raged on the rest of the planet, Ahriman and his personal forces landed in the area and began the excavation, using great machines that had been built by the Dark Mechanicum for that specific purpose. For weeks they searched as Tallarn burned, and by the time they reached their goal, the Imperial resistance had been reduced to a handful of warbands wandering the desert too fast to be caught. The cities had fallen, their population caged and their minds too hammered by psychic probes to be able to rise against their conquerors. Many were sent to the site of the discovery, to help dig out that for which the Illuminated Empire had set the Segmentum ablaze.

It was immense. A circle of black, unidentifiable material, hundreds of meters wide and etched with humanoid figures of impossible grace frozen in positions of ecstasy – or agony, it was impossible to tell. Alien runes glowed on the ring's inner side, with the same kind of glow embers possess after the pyre has long since gone out, but before its heat has completely faded away. The Sorcerers among the excavation team knew that, had the artefact been left alone, these runes would have continued to glow with residual power long after Tallarn's sun had died out. Now that it had been dug out, it blazed to their second sight, and they were forced to raise their mental shields lest its whispers drive them to madness.

They had found it. The relic for which Perturabo had searched during the first War of Tallarn, for which he had thrown the full might of his Legion into a single campaign, ignoring the summons of Horus until the Warmaster could no longer be denied. The key to power that Magnus the Red had promised to the Lord of Iron, in exchange for the Fourth Legion joining the Illuminated Empire.

It had many names. To the Iron Warriors' Navigators, driven beyond madness and into terrible clarity by what they had witnessed at the Eye of Terror's core, it was the Black Occulus. To the Eldar keepers of the Black Library, it was the Cursus of Alganar. In the time of the Eldar Empire, it had been known as the Gateway of the Gods, one of three such devices built by the Children of Isha at the height of their power, before the spiritual rot that would create Slaanesh set into their souls. But in the end, no matter what names mortals put upon it to avoid facing the truth of its nature, there was only one that perfectly described it.

Hellgate.

They had to use manual labour to rise the structure, as no Sorcerer was stupid enough to use his powers on it and the engines of the Dark Mechanicum refused to get anywhere near it (though they had to kill three dozens of their handlers before the Thousand Sons gave up). With cords and pulleys and the muscles of thousands of enslaved men and women, the Black Occulus was raised, and though it could still be seen through, those who did couldn't help but think there was something subtly wrong about the other side.

'What are we supposed to do with the bloody thing ?' asked Kroeger to Ahriman, the two of them standing a respecting distance away from the Hellgate. 'We can't get it aboard our ships, not with what it's doing to our machines.'

'We must activate it first,' replied the Arch-Sorcerer. 'Its lingering energies are wild, unfocused : that's why they interfere with our machines. But once it's properly activated, we will be able to tap into its own power to transport it aboard the _Truthbringer_ , and then to the Eye of Terror.'

There were many things Kroeger wanted to say, but he settled for the most pressing :

'And how do you suggest we activate it ?'

Ahriman tore his gaze from the Hellgate and turned to look where Bile was advancing toward them, a pair of stasis fields hovering behind him. Within the fields could be seen the two Ancients who had turned their own kind against itself, frozen mid-vivisection once their creator had learned all he could from them.

'Sometimes,' said Ahriman, 'the oldest ways are the best. We want to open a gate between the realm of mortals and that of daemons, and the Neverborn have always been keen on symbolism and traditions …'

'Sacrifices, then', understood Kroeger.

'Exactly.'

They cut out the hearts of the two treacherous Ancients in a grand ceremony, atop a pyramid of black stone whose stone had been mined on the Planet of the Sorcerers and put together by the enslaved people of Tallarn. Hundreds of sons of Magnus stood in a many-layered circle, chanting and pooling their energies to grant the ritual of sacrifice even greater weight in the Empyrean. All of them heard the screams of the Ancients as their Warp-touched souls were torn out of their bodies and fed into the Black Occulus.

'The energy levels are rising,' observed Ignis. The Master of Ruin stood next to Ahriman atop the pyramid, part of the inner circle of Exalted Sorcerers directing the ritual offering. 'But it's not enough to activate it yet. We need more.'

So began the Culling, with the shape-shifters turning on their own to bring the weak, the foolish and the unfavoured to the pyramid so that their lives and souls may be offered to their Gods. From the newly transformed who had proven disappointing to the progeny of the Ancients who had fallen out of grace, the shape-shifters paid the price of their loyalty. Many volunteered, walking the black steps freely and meeting their ends with a smile on their lips. Those who were caught and herded eventually gave in, once they realized there was no escape, that this was the best way they could serve their Gods. And if Ahriman felt anything like regret at the sight of so many souls made willing to offer everything to his cause, no trace of it could be seen in his aura as it blazed so very bright.

And when that wasn't enough, the remaining shape-shifters went into the prison camps, and turned thousands of humans into their own kind before dragging them to the sacrificial knives before they even had a chance to recover from the traumatic transformation of their bodies and souls. Day after day, the sacrifices continued, never pausing, never slowing, and all the while Ignis reported on the recharging of the Hellgate, in a tone of voice as cold and indifferent as if he were monitoring a spaceship's plasma reactor.

It took thousands of sacrifices to open the Cursus of Alganar after its long slumber. Rivers of altered blood flowed down the steps of the pyramid and into canals that formed sorcerous patterns, extracting the last drop of power from the spilled ichor. The skies turned dark and crimson as the Veil thinned, and arcs of eldritch energy coursed on the Hellgate's surface, making it seem as if the engraved figures were moving.

From time to time, Bile took one of the transformed Imperials, curious whether transformations on such a scale would have an effect on the final result. He was especially interested in the psychological effects of the transformation on those individuals who had held a particularly strong belief in the False Emperor's godhood prior to the change.

And then, as the Black Occulus was nearly fully charged, they came. The Warp shattered at the edge of the system, and a new power arrived to join the battle for the galaxy's future. The first part of the fleet only counted a handful of vessels, but each was a master-work of Imperial ingenuity, crewed by the best men and women from the Imperial Navy, their skills undiminished by the complete brainwashing and conditioning they had gone through. Their livery was silver and grey, shining in the light of Tallarn's sun in defiance of the darkness that had shrouded the system. Behind them came more vessels, from the Imperial Navy, the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Space Marines Chapters, and the Rogue Traders. This host was only half the size of the Black Crusade amassed in Tallarn's orbit, yet all psykers in it felt dread as its flagship sailed toward them on full speed.

The Dark Gods screamed in outrage, and on the desert planet, every warrior of the Fifteenth Legion felt a potent mixture of shock, fear, and shame. A great psychic voice boomed into their heads, driving them to their knees before the shocked gazes of the shape-shifters. They clawed at their heads, screaming incoherently as long-suppressed memories of failure and dishonor were dragged to the surface, past all the walls of dissembling and arrogance they had erected to protect themselves from the truth of what they had become. Even cold and calculating Ignis struggled, his soul unable to hold onto his perfect patterns of destruction before the onslaught of horrifying recollections – he had done so many horrible things in victory's name, long before the Legion had turned its back on the Imperium.

Only Ahriman was strong enough to keep standing. His pride and conviction would not allow him to fall, and he clung to his Black Staff, drawing his power to him, and then casting it around to shield his brothers from the psychic onslaught. One by one, they fought back the tide of memories and stood back up, but the words of their adversary still burned within their souls. By his mere presence, this most secret warrior of the Imperium had brought the lords of the Illuminated Empire to their knees. The time of reckoning had come, for all sons of Magnus knew who it was who led the armada the Imperium had sent to stop them.

' **Ahzek,'** proclaimed Janus, Supreme Grand Master of the 666th Chapter, born of the flesh of the Corvidae Revuel Arvida and a splinter of the soul of Magnus the Red. **'I have come for you.'**

* * *

AN : And here he is ! We all knew it had to happen some time. From the moment I started working on this fic, I knew I would have to involve Janus at some point. I have plans for him, which I am not going to spoil for you.

Work on the Roboutian Heresy continues. The next chapter is all but done. In other news, I have finally started writing Warband of the Forsaken Sons again, and am up to 4k words for the next chapter.

As usual, please tell me what you thought of this chapter and what you would like to see in the next ones. The battle of Tallarn will soon come to a close, and then we will switch back to Khayon and Abaddon in the Eye of Terror, hunting for Eidolon on Drol Kheir.

I have written a short Warhammer 40K short story on spacebattles, titled "Buried Secrets", as part of the ongoing writing contest on that website themed "Spaceship in the wilderness". I will post it on ffnet once the voting is over (I think that's in the rules), so go check there if you want to see it before then (since the voting ends at the end of July). Follow the indications of the website's banner, and you should be good.

Zahariel out.


	54. The Doom of Ahriman

It had all begun on Terra.

When Magnus the Red had failed to prevent the corruption of Horus Lupercal by Erebus' schemes at Davin, the Crimson King had then sought to warn his father of the Warmaster's treachery. By combining the efforts of his entire Legion, Magnus had sent his spirit to Terra, to commune with the Emperor and pass on his dire warning. But he had been deceived, and his sending had shattered the wards of the Imperial Palace, allowing the infinite hordes of the Neverborn to lay siege to the Throneworld and forcing the Emperor and His Custodians into an endless war, fought in secret while the Primarchs made war upon one another across the galaxy.

Knowing he had ruined his father's great plan broke Magnus' spirit, and when the Space Wolves had come to Prospero, their orders changed by Horus from capture to extermination, the Crimson King did not intervene. He believed that he and his sons believed to die for what they had done, and sent the Fifteenth's fleet away and deactivated the planet's orbital defenses. Only at the end, when the cries of his sons and his people were too much for him to bear, did he finally abandon the path to martyrdom and face his brother Russ. But even though his power was great and terrible, Magnus' soul had still been cracked by what he had done, and when the Wolf King defeated him and broke his body upon his knee, that crack widened until Magnus' soul tore apart into countless fragments.

Like calls to like, and these fragments had coalesced into a handful of greater soul-shards, which had scattered across time and space. The greatest of these pieces of Magnus had followed his Legion to the Planet of the Sorcerers, where it had slowly died as the course of the Heresy unfolded outside the Eye of Terror. Ahriman and his cabal had restored their father, hunting the other soul-shards and reuniting them, saving their Primarch from dissolution, but three had eluded them. Of these, the Thousand Sons knew of only one : the shard that had gone to Terra, following the path that had brought Magnus' such shame in the first place. It had gone back to the Throneworld, to face judgement and make penance for the crime of the Crimson King. In that shard was contained the best of Magnus : his nobility, his honor and his devotion to his father.

Seeking a defender fit to guard the infernal portal Magnus' folly had created, Malcador the Sigillite had bound the shard into the body of a dying Thousand Son, Revuel Arvida, who had brought the White Scars to Terra at terrible cost to himself. It was Malcador's hope to recreate Magnus as he should have been by consuming the life of Revuel, but the process failed, and a new being rose from the attempt, born of the fusion of a loyal son's soul and a shard of a demigod's spirit. This being called itself Janus, the two-faced god who had orchestrated his own creation. He had become the leader and most powerful of the secretive Grey Knights, the Emperor's last gift to Mankind and ultimate weapon against the Dark Gods. For thousands of years, Janus and his brothers had remained on hiding on the moon of Titan.

And now, with the Segmentum Tempestus burning and the Cursus of Alganar in the hands of the Fifteenth Legion and its allies, the Supreme Grand Master of the Grey Knights had emerged from hiding. He had sensed the return of the Thousand Sons into realspace, sensed the transformation wrought upon them, and felt the echoes of their designs through the Empyrean. So he had come, and brought with him the wrath of the Imperium. More than half of the Grey Knights Chapter accompanied him, and their psychic power was a beacon that burned through the swarms of daemons brought to Tallarn by the Illuminated Empire's crusade.

The Imperial fleet clashed with the Black Crusade armada, and the Imperial Navy fought to allow the Grey Knights and the Space Marines passage to Tallarn. Every psyker in the entire fleet was in considerable pain, screaming prophecies of imminent doom at the top of their lungs : there was no concealing the peril the entire Imperium was in. Few in the Imperial fleet knew what the traitors were doing, but all knew that they must be stopped no matter the cost. Tens of thousands died in ships sacrificed so that the Astartes vessels could reach orbit and unload their deadly cargo onto the planet below, their lives ending in fire and terror, their souls caught and torn apart by hungry daemons. The only reason the Imperial host wasn't decimated further was that the Chaos fleet suffered from the same handicap, as every Warp-touched soul reacted to the arrival of Janus and so many Grey Knights. Some fell to their knees, weeping uncontrollably; others screamed in agony as the corruption of their souls boiled; others still simply stopped in their tracks, their awareness retreating deep inside to avoid facing the terrible light of the Emperor's Gift.

Seizing that opening, thousands of Space Marines made planetfall, aiming for the closest location to the Hellgate that they could. Millions more troops descended onto Tallarn, but only the Astartes were sent to the Cursus : the rest were spread out among the planet's cities, for the Grey Knights didn't trust them to resist the corruption of Chaos should they be sent against the Hellgate.

Among the transhuman host were the Space Wolves and their cousin Chapter, the Wolf Brothers, reborn from their first catastrophic founding through the efforts of Thrar Hraldir, an Apothecary who had perfected the Canis Helix so that the Wolf King's scions could endure way from Fenris' stabilizing influence. Nigh two thousands warriors of Russ charged alongside the Grey Knights, shouting the same oaths their ancestors had shouted in the burning streets of Tizca. With them came warriors hailing from Chapters born from each of the loyal Legions, their different allegiances forgotten in the face of the Illuminated Empire's evil. Save for a few ancient Dreadnoughts, none of these warriors had lived through the horrors of the Horus Heresy. Most of them had never even fought against a Traitor Marine. But they had fought against the many other horrors of the galaxy, in the endless wars that must be waged to keep the Imperium safe. And what they did not know, their Chapters remembered. On every Chapter homeworld, in archives forbidden to all but the battle-brothers, the tales of the great rebellion were kept, the rolls of the dead and the oaths of vengeance.

The Legion forces of the Illuminated Empire met their loyalist brethren before the sacrificial pyramid, howling their savage joy at the chance to spill the blood of their cousins again. With every Librarian sensing the approaching culmination of the Traitors' foul spell-work, no time was given to tactics or strategy. Tanks and Dreadnoughts joined the battle as soon as they landed, and a horde of heroes clashed with a Legion of renegades. Transhuman blood flowed on the sands of Tallarn, and the air was filled with the sound of clashing blades and bolt shells detonating on ceramite.

Sanakht, greatest swordsman of the Fifteenth Legion, fought alongside the Legionaries, back to back with Kroeger. The psychic wound he had suffered against the Maelat prevented him from participating in the ritual, but his skills with the blade were undiminished, and his hatred of the Space Wolves burned as bright as ever. The sons of Russ recognized his armor, even if it was now sapphire blue instead of copper red, and threw themselves at him, eager to finish what their forebears had begun on Prospero. With Kroeger's Iron Warriors at his side, the son of Magnus met the Wolves head on, and cut a bloody path through them, what remained of his psychic powers enhancing his skills even further. Sanakht had lost his power, but none of his control, and he wielded what little energy he still had access to with a precision unseen in any other Sorcerer.

At the head of the Imperial host was Janus himself, great and terrible in his power, and all who faced him died. Silver lightning shrouded him, leaping from his ornate armor to incinerate entire squads of Chaos Marines. Bolt rounds and plasma shots splashed harmlessly on his great war-plate, and his great psi-blade blazed with fire so hot it charred the gruesome trophies of Chaos Marines more than a hundred meters away. Around him came the Grey Knights, and like a mighty spear they pierced through the ranks of their enemies, advancing far ahead from the rest of the host. They were cutting themselves from reinforcements and they knew it, but it did not matter to them. They had come to Tallarn to fulfill their sacred duty : the protection of Mankind from the darkest horrors of the Warp, and they would not be stopped, no matter the cost.

Eventually, sheer weight of number began to tell, and the Knights of Titan began to fall. The gestalt union of five hundred of the Imperium's mightiest psykers began to weaken, just as they were about to cut their way out of the Legion host and face the Thousand Sons Sorcerers. The collective might of a thousand Sorcerers, among them a hundred Exalted, smashed into the Grey Knights, forcing them to stop in their track. Reality rippled under the strength of the energies unleashed in that momentous confrontation, but only Janus was able to go forth, his gaze fixed onto the pyramid, where the Arch-Sorcerer of Tzeentch was still cutting out the hearts of willing sacrifices and calling upon ancient, evil powers to fulfill his goal.

Janus walked among the Thousand Sons, and he did not strike them, though whether it was to save his strength for the confrontation ahead or because of any lingering attachment to the Fifteenth Legion was known only to him and the Emperor. Then, as he reached the base of the pyramid, five humanoid figures stood in his path. The Ancients had come to defend their god, even if it meant facing an true divine being. Great indeed was the loyalty Bile and Ahriman had ingrained into them.

The Ancients cast off their human shapes as they attacked the Supreme Grand Master, revealing the nightmarish aspects that they had evolved into over two millennia of growth. There was nothing even remotely human in the monstrosities that barred Janus' path, nor anything daemonic either. The Ancients had moved beyond the human notions of the infernal and into realms of darkness where no psyker had ever been able to thread. Things only glimpsed in the feverish nightmares of madmen manifested before the Grey Knight, existence itself screaming at their grotesque presence. The closest Chaos Marines vomited in their helmets, overwhelmed by the sheer _otherness_ of the eldest shape-shifters. A safe distance away from the fighting, Fabius Bile watched, and a sense of pride warmed his cold, cold heart as he saw what his children had made of themselves.

Janus answered the obscene sight of the Ancients with a call to the Emperor on his lips, and unleashed his power. It surged, a tide of silver light, and burned away the darkness of the Ancients, banishing the shadows surrounding them and revealing them in their full horror. Any mortal would have been driven to insanity at the sight, but Janus' mind was a fortress equal to the Imperial Palace. He fought with his sword against claws and fangs and things that had no name in any language. Liquids that weren't blood poured out of the wounds he carved into the unnatural flesh, and Janus' own crimson vitae was spilled as the wards and thrice-blessed ceramite of his armor was pierced.

In the end, Janus triumphed. His power burned out the twisted souls of three Ancients, and he threw the last two through dimensional rifts that began to appear as the ritual of opening the Hellgate neared completion. Cast directly into the Warp, the two creatures would wander the Empyrean, their unholy nature allowing them to survive where no mortal could, until the bonds of loyalty placed upon their essence dragged them back to Sortiarus. There they would join the Illuminated Empire and bring another path to inhuman apotheosis to the mortal cultists of the Thousand Sons, rebuilding their monstrous lineages under the Tower of the Cyclops.

With the Ancients dispatched, nothing remained in Janus' path. Wounded, with much of his power expended fighting the abominable creations of Bile and Ahriman, the lord of the Grey Knights pressed on, climbing the steps of the pyramid toward the Arch-Sorcerer. The shape-shifters who had been brought to be sacrificed turned around and threw themselves at him, transforming into their war-shapes, but they were as flies before a storm, and he swatted them out of his way with blasts of telekinetic power. And finally, Janus came face to face with Ahriman.

' **Ahzek,'** he said, and his voice boomed with power no longer contained. **'What have you done ?'**

'What I had to,' replied the Arch-Sorcerer, nimbed in eldritch energies and holding in one hand his Black Staff, and in the other the sacrificial dagger, still dripping with inhuman blood. 'Everything we have done, here and everywhere else, was done to preserve the Legion.'

' **The Legion was _dead._ It died on Prospero, when Horus deceived Russ into executing us, and I was deceived into letting him do it rather than submit and let him take me back to my father. What you and the others have done is an abomination. You have turned from everything we ever fought for, and become the very things we were sworn to defend Humanity against.'**

'It was necessary,' said Ahriman, unmoved. 'No matter the price to pay, it will all be justified once we bring Mankind into a new Golden Age by freeing them from the lies of the Imperium and elevating them into the next stage of their evolution.'

' **You call _this_ justified ?' ** There was something new in Janus' voice, something very much like regret, even desperation. **'Look around you, Ahzek. Look at where you stand, at the company you keep. See what you have become. What you made of yourself, of your Legion.'**

The Primarch-shard gestured to Ahriman, to the altar behind him, to the rivers of blood flowing on the pyramid's stone and to the Hellgate looming over it all.

' ** _Look,_ Ahzek,' **he pressed. **'The Warp has lied to you, just as it lied to me so long ago.'**

' _I_ saved us from the curse ! I unmade the flesh-change _you_ could do nothing but delay ! _I_ am the _master_ of the Warp !'

' **NO ONE IS EVER MASTER OF THE WARP !'** shouted Janus. **'Any who believe to the contrary are merely deluded fools deceived by the malign intelligences that dwell within ! Damn you, Ahzek, you _know_ what the Dark Gods are ! My other self _showed_ them to you, before you "restoredˮ him, and dragged him from restful oblivion into eternal damnation !'**

'The "Dark Godsˮ are nothing but amalgamations of emotions in the Sea of Souls. They are not truly sentient, even if they _are_ indeed malevolent. They can be manipulated, outthought. And that is what the Illuminated Empire is about. We will master the power of the Warp, while keeping these Powers quiet through controlled offerings. It is the only way for Mankind to survive, and with the Cursus in our hands, even the Gods themselves will have to heed our will.'

Janus shook his head, and his sadness was obvious. Yet his resolve was even clearer.

' **You are mad, Ahzek, if you cannot see the evil of your actions. I will stop you.'**

'The only way you can do that,' said Ahzek softly, 'is by killing me and every other Thousand Son here. Do you really have it in you to murder your own sons, _again_?'

The Grey Knight chuckled, entirely without humor.

' **Of course I do. Even now, after everything I have been through, enough of Magnus, of the Emperor, remains in me that I can do whatever is necessary for the good of the Imperium. Even if it means killing my own sons. Truly, fate has been cruel to our line … Goodbye, Ahzek. I will make sure your soul burns to ash, and is spared the torments of Tzeentch.'**

And so the favoured son of the Crimson King and the vessel of his nobility began to fight.

Janus charged, and his blade descended onto Ahzek's helm with enough strength to cut a Baneblade in twain. The Arch-Sorcerer blocked it with his staff, and the impact sent a shock-wave that shook the pyramid to its foundations. Janus freed his sword, and turned aside to dodge a blow from the dagger in Ahriman's other hand. The blade may appear small and insignificant, but in Janus' soul-sight, it blazed with the lives it had claimed in the last days, and was more than capable of piercing through his armor. On and on they slashed at each other, Ahriman's two weapons compensating for his smaller stature compared to Janus' Terminator-class armor.

Even as the two warlords fought on the material plane, their minds also clashed on the psychic plane. A storm of sorcerous wind and fire surrounded them, hiding their duel from the rest of the battle's fighters. In the Immaterium, a billion daemons watched as the soul-fires of two of the galaxy's greatest psykers fought, with those who were drawn too close obliterated by the conflagration, never to return. Far away, in the Eye of Terror, Magnus lifted his gaze from the Illuminated Empire, and silently encouraged his son as he fought against his wayward shard.

Ahriman was the Arch-Sorcerer of Tzeentch, greatest psyker in the Fifteenth Legion and Lord of the Rubric. But even though Janus was weakened from his battle with the Ancients, he was still the mightiest shard of Magnus the Red, and his armor and sword amplified his tremendous powers to god-like levels. Slowly, step by step, Ahzek was forced back, toward the edge of the platform atop the pyramid. An errant blow from Janus' sword pulverized the altar into dust. In Janus' sight, the Sorcerer's silhouette was illuminated by the baleful light of the Hellgate, the shadow of an infernal lord come to bring damnation to the worlds of men – and that image drew him on and on, calling upon all the power he had kept locked away for more than three thousand years. With a final blow, he sent Ahriman's dagger flying, knocked the Black Staff aside, and ran Ahriman through.

The two combatants froze in place, Ahriman out of shock and Janus because he was focusing all of his power into the sword, trying to fulfill his promise and destroy Ahzek completely. Agony burned the Arch-Sorcerer, and the grimoire at his hip, the Necroteuch that had been given to him by Lorgar Aurelian what seemed a lifetime ago, burst into flames with the sound of a hundred Neverborn shrieking. Ahriman's hand opened, and his Black Staff fell to the ground, shattering into a thousand pieces as it hit the stones.

' **Die, Ahzek,'** said Janus softly. **'Die, and rest. It is over.'**

Ahriman lifted a trembling hand from his side toward the blade impaling him. Blood was flooding from the wound, mixing with the red vitae that had drenched the platform as the sacrifices went on. The pain was atrocious – any other Legionary would have already died. But he was the Lord of the Rubric, keystone of the grand spell that protected all the sons of Magnus from the ravages of the flesh-change. He had known since facing Fulgrim that it would take a truly enormous power to kill him, but faced with Janus' determination, he suddenly wondered if the Grey Knight would actually be able to end him – and that doubt sparked something very much like fear within him. Ahzek did not fear death for himself, but he feared what his demise would mean for his brothers. Images of the flesh-change returning, of the Illuminated Empire collapsing and his Legion being driven to extinction by vengeful enemies flooded his agonized psyche.

 _No_ , he thought. _I will not let this happen._

For the third and final time, Ahzek Ahriman called upon the whole of his power. He called to all the fragments of himself, spread out across time and space, to grant him the power he needed to accomplish the mission given to him by his Primarch. He called, and they answered, from worlds long-lost and epochs past and yet to come. Power flooded through him, greater than anything he had ever experienced, and it was the easiest thing in the world to pull out the sword from his chest.

Janus screamed in horror as he saw what Ahriman was doing. The Arch-Sorcerer was destroying himself, allowing his body to be consumed by the terrible energies of the Warp. He knew exactly the risks he was taking, the price he would have to pay. But he did it nevertheless.

Because even now, Ahzek Ahriman truly believed that he was doing the right thing.

As Janus struggled to remain standing before the immense power Ahriman was unleashing, Ahriman raised his hands and closed them into fists. With a gesture of his head, he tore the holy sword from Janus' hands and sent it flying through the battlefield. The weapon smashed into the sands point first, creating a crater of glass at the center of which it stood planted, still glowing with the awesome power of its wielder. Ahriman then punched out, smashing his gauntlets into the chest of Janus, his hands shrouded in power. Cracks spread across the silver armor, and Ahriman punched again, and again, holding Janus in place with the power he was calling from his fragments.

Eventually, Janus was forced to his knees, his armor falling to pieces around him. His helmet fell off, revealing a strange, noble double-face that was eerily familiar to Ahriman. He stared at Ahriman with eyes filled with anger, sorrow and regret, and under his horned helm Ahriman stared back with an eyeless face. Then, with a final blow, the Arch-Sorcerer struck the temple of the Grand Master, and Janus fell, slowly, unconscious. For all the power he possessed, the base of his body was still human, and there was only so much damage he could take before shutting down. Blood flowed from his split skin, and the moment it touched the stone and flowed into the ritual patterns laid down the Thousand Sons, the power contained within finally triggered the Hellgate.

The Cursus of Alganar opened, a circle of burning, mind-bending colors that did not exist in any sane reality blazing upon the battlefield. A great cry rose from the plains below the pyramid at the sight, and Ahriman stood there, unable to move. His body was being consumed from the inside by the power he had called, and he could sense the abyss of destiny yawning under his feet. Ever since he had completed the Rubric and returned Magnus to his sons, his doom had hung over him : it was his fate to replace his father at the Court of Fate, to lay claim to the unoccupied throne of the Crimson King. Lorgar had warned him on Sicarius, all that time ago. The Warp abhorred a vacuum, and _someone_ would take Magnus' place. Someone _had_ to, in order to protect the Illuminated Empire from the machinations of rival Powers. And yet, Ahriman still fought against the transformation. He didn't want to leave his brothers behind, to lose all that remained of his mortality. And so he clung to it, resisting the pull of destiny with all of his indomitable will, and slowly, bit by bit, the pull diminished.

For a moment, Ahriman dared to think that he was going to succeed, that he was going to reject his destiny one more time. Then the heavens above Tallarn tore open, and a host of nightmares descended upon an already tormented world. There were all kinds of horrors in that flock : daemons born from the despair of dying civilizations, monsters spawned by unholy experiments into the quest of transcendence, and the ghosts of a thousand worlds murdered in the name of expediency.

The host flew above the battlefield, and even Chaos Marines who had fought in the infernal landscapes of the Eye of Terror paused and looked up as this swarm drew nearer to the top of the pyramid, where it stopped, impossibly immobile as one of its number stepped down to face Ahriman, standing between the Arch-Sorcerer and the inanimate body of Janus.

This representative was human, or at least appeared as such. He was dressed in tattered robes that had not been washed in years, and his face was scarred and weathered by countless battles. But it was his eyes that betrayed his true nature : they glowed with a blinding, unforgiving white light.

Ahriman recognized the face, even though he had only seen it once, and it had been very different back then.

'You,' he said, straining to speak as he fought against the remaining energies trying to change him into a creature of pure spirit. 'I know you. You were there … when I claimed the Keystone.'

'You don't even know my name,' said the man, and his voice was entirely too human compared to the cacophony of the host massed in the air behind him as he spoke for them all. 'You never asked for it when you came and murdered my world. Hear me, then : I am Anarion Dragleiov, the last soul of Legato, the world that burned to create your precious Keystone. Or at least, that's who I was once. Now I am the Herald, speaker for the Children of Ahriman.'

'What … ?'

'There are consequences to every action, witch. Punishment follows every sin, sooner or later – and you have committed _so many_ sins. The galaxy bled because of you, in the past, present and future, all because of your ambitions. We are those your fragments abandoned after they were done, your children of time. And we have come here, because when you called for all of your power, you shone so very brightly that it was finally possible for us all to come together and follow the path you unwittingly opened for us … and here we are. The reckoning, at long last.'

Before Ahriman could say anything else, Anerion flew at him, propelled by the hatred of the billions of souls the Arch-Sorcerer's fragments had destroyed, and the Children came after him. They smashed into Ahriman, surrounding him, clawing at him and lifting him in the air. He struggled and fought back, lashing out with spears of psychic power, but there were too many of them, and he was still barely holding his physical form together against the energies raging inside his soul. The Thousand Sons, still locked in psychic confrontation with the rest of the Grey Knights, could only watch in horror as their leader was raised into the air by the swarm of unholy entities.

' **This is your fate,'** said Anarion, and there was nothing human left in his voice as the light of his eyes started to glow from every blood vessel in his face. **'This is your punishment !'**

The Children of Ahriman carried their creator directly into the Hellgate. Ahriman had just enough time to realize what was happening before being slammed through, followed by the entirety of the swarm. Cast into the Warp without the protection of a Geller Field, the Arch-Sorcerer could no longer hold back his transformation. The last shreds of his humanity burned away, and the God of Change laughed as a new Prince joined his court, glowing with the light of the Rubric that made up his core. This new arrival was immediately followed by a veritable horde of spirits. The Children were reforged by the same fires that had transfigured Ahriman, becoming another Power in their own right, driven by hatred of Ahriman, vowing to spend all of eternity keeping him away from his brothers, trapped in the Court of Change, never to return to the Materium.

With his new power, Ahriman reached out to Tallarn, and teleported every soldier of the Illuminated Empire back to their ships, and transported the Hellgate into the specially prepared hold aboard the _Truthbringer._ The Exalted Sorcerers, knowing in their souls what had happened to their leader, immediately ordered the fleet to disengage from the Imperial armada. They had accomplished the purpose behind the Black Crusade, though at a terrible cost, and it was time now to return to the Eye of Terror. Part of the fleet amassed by the shape-shifters was left behind to hold back Imperial pursuit, the crews mind-controlled into giving their lives to facilitate the escape.

And aboard the _Truthbringer,_ the torpid body of Supreme Grand Master Janus held in chains …

* * *

AN : Well, here we are. It has happened at last. Ahriman has paid the price for his power, for saving his Legion from the flesh-change. It was always going to happen, and he knew it, but I find it fitting that it finally occurs in part forty-nine, which is seven times seven (with seven being the sacred number of Nurgle, the opposite power of Tzeentch).

The Tallarn arc is done. Next we will go back to Iskandar and Abaddon on Drol Kheir. I think you will like what I have planned for them there. It certainly will surprise you, and after the last chapter of the RH, I think you all know that I can be quite surprising when I want to ...

Speaking of the RH, I am working on the final part of the Battle of Macragge, which I know many of you are impatiently waiting for. So far, none of your theories about what the Sacrificed Son is are correct. Keep them coming ! I am curious to see if _anyone_ can figure it out before the chapter is done.

Zahariel out.


	55. Deepest Circle

Drol Kheir. A single world orbiting its star that burned with purple light and seemed to look back into the souls of those who stared at it with a single, impossibly large pupil. In an island of relative tranquillity amidst the Eye of Terror's furious tides, with the half of the Warp on one side of the plane defined by the world's orbit being filled with the images of an infinity of outstretched hands and the other raging flames dancing around unblinking eyes. The planet had no natural satellite, though its new masters had built a plethora of orbital stations and dockyards around it, along with other structures that had nothing to do with the arts of the Dark Mechanicum.

Once, the planet had been a shining jewel of the Eldar Empire, like the vast majority of the Eye of Terror's worlds. Now, it belonged to Slaanesh, much like the old Empire itself and the souls of all its people, from now and unto eternity. Whatever shape Drol Kheir had assumed in past years had vanished with the arrival of Eidolon and the remnants of the Slaaneshi host, as the psyches of the Soul-Severed and the other monsters he had brought with him transformed the daemon world into a form more pleasing to their demented intellects. Thanks to the Eye's time-bending properties, decades had passed for most members of the Host since their defeat at Sortiarus, though the scars and humiliations they had suffered there were still as fresh as ever.

For in the Eye of Terror, no wound is ever healed by time, and grudges last until death (and beyond). It is one of the subtler yet clearer signs that, for all the power and glory to be found here, the Eye is and remains Hell, the kingdom of the Lost and the Damned, where the Champions of Chaos fight for the amusement of the Dark Gods.

The Slaaneshi Host had conquered the system easily, and its warbands had sustained themselves through raids on neighbouring domains, stealing supplies and slaves from other daemon worlds and Legion outposts. So far, the Soul-Severed had managed to maintain some semblance of order, using his rank as Fulgrim's right-hand and the threat of his considerable power to keep the other warlords' feuds from descending into outright warfare. The promise of retribution against the Illuminated Empire, combined with carefully cultivated rumors that the Phoenician would one day return to lead them to glorious victory against the Thousand Sons and their Iron Warriors puppets, had also helped in that regard. Almost every warrior of the host was a veteran of the battle of Sortiarus : the defeat they had endured there had marked them to the Eye's other forces. None would ally with them, and few would trade. The disparate, broken warbands of Drol Kheir only had one another to rely upon.

Even so, there were plenty in the host who sought to elevate themselves above their co-conspirators, and Eidolon typically faced a dozen assassination attempts every month. The Soul-Severed had survived these attacks through sheer power and paranoia, and the assistance of a cadre of Noise Marines. Bound to Eidolon through unknown means, these monstrous warriors also ensured that the rabble was kept in its place through regular purges of the masses of cultists flocking to Drol Kheir, drawn by the siren choir of the Neverborn feasting upon its debauchery.

It was to this world that the Sons of Horus and their allies among the Illuminated Empire came, to finish what had been begun at Sortiarus. The Sixteenth Legion warships emerged at the system's edge in formation, with the _Vengeful Spirit_ and the _Tlaloc_ at the head of the armada. They did not bother to announce their purpose to the Emperor's Children : the presence of the _Tlaloc_ was declaration of intent enough. Aboard the vessels of the Sons of Horus, Legionaries made ready for war, their hearts burning with the desire to fight a true war once more, and to punish the Third Legion for its failure at Terra. While the other Traitor Legions had turned against the Sons of Horus for running after the Warmaster's death, the sons of Lupercal remembered things differently : to them, the rebellion had failed because Fulgrim's get had abandoned their allies, instead indulging their perversions with the trillion-strong population of the Throneworld.

On the bridge of _Tlaloc_ stood Iskandar Khayon, Necromancer of the Thousand Sons and Sorcerer Lord of the Illuminated Empire. At his side were Lucius the Eternal and the daemons Gyre and Lilith, and behind him, elevated on his dais, was Ashur-Kai the White Seer, who had led the _Tlaloc_ and the fleet of the Sons of Horus through the tides of Eyespace and to Drol Kheir. In the age of Antiquity, long before Humanity had first left the surface on Terra and taken its first tentative steps into the countless horrors of space, there had been pantheons worshiped by entire civilizations that had held less power than these individuals did. One (or perhaps all) of them had likely been a member of several of these ancient faiths, and the mutant tribes of the _Tlaloc_ certainly still regarded them as such, along with the iron goddess who ruled the entire ship.

The Necromancer was in psychic communion with his sister, the Anamnesis, seeing through her eyes the defenses of the system and the massed fleet of the Slaaneshi Host. Clearly, Eidolon had been expecting them. Squadrons patrolled the system, all of them already rushing back to the world as they saw the might of the incoming fleet – there were here to deal with infiltrators, and could do nothing against a Legion's unleashed wrath. Space forts orbited Drol Kheir, constructs of metal and jewels that glimmered in the light of the system's star. Even from the _Tlaloc_ , Khayon could tell that they had been crafted by infernal artisans, the essence of defeated daemons bound into their core to power their weaponry. He did not know what price Eidolon had offered for the dozen such structures orbiting Drol Kheir, but he doubted it had been the Soul-Severed paying it.

Under his black helmet, Iskandar's lips curled into a smile.

'This is going to be interesting,' he said out loud, to no one in particular.

 _I sense something on the planet,_ sent Ashur-Kai. Khayon's mentor was too tired from the effort of leading the fleet to speak, but he could still broadcast his thoughts for everyone to hear them. _Something older than the taint of the Third Legion. Can you sense it too, Iskandar ?_

Khayon extended his perceptions, careful to brace himself against the aura of madness and sensation that surrounded Drol Kheir. A lesser practitioner would have been driven mad by the cloying corruption, but Khayon had fought and defeated the Greater Daemon Zarakynel, and his soul was proof against such second-hand influence. And there, underneath the miasma that covered Drol Kheir, was what Ashur-Kai was talking about.

 _This is the Maze of Drol Kheir,_ said Lilith's voice in his head, and he knew from the way Lucius and Gyre flinched that they were hearing her too. _In ancient times, before the rise of the Dark Prince, it was a place of meditation and contemplation of the inner secrets of the universe, where the soul-broken went to seek wisdom. Now it has become something else entirely. The sons of the Phoenician are wary of it, and have left it undisturbed despite their proclaimed quest to experience all things._

'Well,' said Khayon, 'then we will have to make sure not to disturb it ourselves. We are here for the Slaaneshi Host – Drol Kheir's secrets are not our concern.'

 _You will go into the Maze, Iskandar,_ replied Lilith, and this time Khayon knew she was communicating with him alone. _There you will learn the truth, and it will break your heart._

She said no more, and Khayon forced himself to not ask any question, and to ignore the shiver of cold premonition coursing down his spine to focus instead on the campaign ahead. He had learned long ago not to trust prophecies, and that was even more important when those prophecies were spoken by a daemon of Lilith's power.

'We are being hailed by the _Vengeful Spirit,_ ' said the Anamnesis from the bridge's gargoyles.

'Put them through,' commanded Khayon.

' _Sorcerer,'_ came Abaddon's voice. _'Here we are at last.'_

Abaddon's thirst for battle was obvious in his voice. Just like the Sons of Horus were blamed by the other Legions for the failure of the great rebellion because they had fled after the death of the Warmaster, so did the warriors of the Sixteenth believe that the sons of Fulgrim were to blame for the death of their Primarch and the abject failure of the Heresy. After all, it had been the Third Legion who, upon landing on Terra, had abandoned the rest of the rebels and instead sought to slake their decadent appetites on the Throneworld's population.

Iskandar shared in that hatred, for he too had lost brothers to loyalist bolters because of the Emperor's Children's treachery. He was worried, however, that the Cthonian temper of his allies may compromise their discipline. It hadn't during the Great Crusade and the rebellion, but the Eye changed all who dwelled within it, drawing out their worst traits. As far as he had been able to tell during the journey from Maeleum, the Sons of Horus weren't as far gone as the World Eaters … but their already legendary temper had certainly grown more violent and unpredictable.

'We are indeed,' he replied. 'Do you see these forts, Abaddon ?'

' _Yes. They don't resemble any design in the_ Vengeful Spirit's _data-banks, but considering that the witches who looked at them are still screaming, I am guessing they are dangerous. The fleet of the Third Legion seems to keep formation near them, which implies a level of discipline surprising for these wretches. Can you take them out of the equation ?_

Iskandar took a moment to consider the problem.

'Yes,' he finally answered. 'Me and my brothers will deal with them. But your ships shouldn't get too close with those of the Emperor's Children until we have. Is that acceptable ?'

' _It will have to be,'_ grunted Abaddon. _'I didn't intend for my Legion to bleed in a chaotic, confused void engagement anyway. Me and my brothers will keep our passions for the battle planetside. You and your warriors will join us there, of course. I look forward to fighting side by side with the infamous Necromancer and his cohorts as we tear our way through Eidolon's precious stronghold.'_

'As do I, First Captain. I will see you on Drol Kheir.'

The link was cut, and Iskandar immediately turned to depart the bridge, his mind already calling out to his brothers scattered aboard the _Tlaloc_ 's upper decks. Ashur-Kai moved to accompany him, but Khayon shook his head.

'You must recover your strength, brother. You spent too much of it guiding the fleet here. Me and the others will be enough for this duty.'

The albino hesitated for a moment before conceding his former pupil's point. Slowly, taking care to hide the full extant of his weakness to the mortal crew, Ashur-Kai departed the bridge, escorted by a couple of battle-automatas. The Exalted Sorcerer was returning to his quarters, to rest where none of the _Tlaloc_ 's lower class could see him. Maintaining the image of invulnerability was very important to keeping order on a vessel like the _Tlaloc,_ where the mortals outnumbered their transhuman masters a thousand to one. In fact, now that Iskandar thought about it, that principle applied to the entire Illuminated Empire. For all the power the Rubric had granted them, the sons of Magnus were still a very small Legion, outnumbered even by their allies from other bloodlines.

Leaving control of the bridge to the Anamnesis, Iskandar left, followed by his two Neverborn companions, the three other Legionaries who had been keeping guard, and Lucius. The Eternal wouldn't be needed for what was to come, but Iskandar wasn't going to let him out of his sight.

On the way to the ritual chamber deeper within the _Tlaloc's_ holds, Iskandar still followed what was happening beyond the confines of the vessel. The fleet of the Sons of Horus was advancing on Drol Kheir, with the _Tlaloc_ joining the advance but letting other ships pass her by as she retreated deeper into the swarm of Sixteenth Legion ships. Let the Emperor's Children and their allied degenerates laugh and jeer at the Thousand Sons' "cowardiceˮ : what the Necromancer and his brother Sorcerers were about to do required as little distraction as possible, and being aboard a ship at the forefront of an armada during an intense battle between two of the greatest fleets of the Eye was _not_ appropriate.

'Abaddon was quick enough to forsake his desire to wage this war without the schemes of Sorcerers,' pointed out Lucius as the party moved through the ship's corridors, joined by several other Thousand Sons on the way. 'What else do you think he will change his mind about ?'

'His request was for us to face the Third Legion as an army, not to cast aside that which makes the Illuminated Empire strong in the first place' replied Iskandar without breaking stride. 'A good warlord makes use of every weapon in his arsenal, and we are the weapon most fit to the task of dealing with these daemonic fortresses. I would have been very disappointed if he had insisted on neutralizing them himself instead of calling upon me.'

'Semantics,' said the Eternal. 'I can see Abaddon will fit in nicely with the rest of the Empire.'

Khayon stopped, and turned to face the swordsman. Every other son of Magnus in the vicinity had also stopped, and was looking at the potential confrontation, their aura rippling with interest.

'What do you mean by that, Lucius ?'

'Oh, nothing,' replied Lucius, smiling, the expression twisting the scars on his face in a pattern that would have given nightmares to any mortal man. 'Only that for all your pretence at being _"civilizedˮ_ and _"nobleˮ_ , in the end, the Fifteenth Legion is just as violent and destructive as any other. You just hide it behind a façade of nobility that's a little thicker than ours. The moment one of your vaunted principles stand in the way of your ambitions, you discard it without hesitation, only to pick it right back up once you are done. And I don't have any problem with that, truly I don't. We all do what we feel we must. I only find it … amusing. The Thousand Sons have always been that way, ready to justify _anything_ they do as the right thing to do. It's a very … _humane_ trait. The only difference is that you Tizcans are much better at it than any of us can dream of ever being.'

'What prompted this sudden reflexion ?' asked Iskandar, tightly holding his emotions in check.

'I am not sure,' frowned Lucius. 'Maybe the fact that we are about to destroy the remnants of my own Legion is stirring some deeply-buried leftover affection for them ? If so ...'

The Eternal smiled, and Iskandar had to hold himself back from striking him down right there at the sight. Most of the time, Lucius' presence was tolerable so long as he didn't look too deep into his aura – but every so often, the mask would slip, and the true monster would show its face.

'If so, then I look forward to what emotions their actual destruction will cause me to experience.'

* * *

AN : and we are back ! I am mostly working on the next chapter of the RH these days, but I took the time to finish this since it was already half-written by the time the last part of the Battle of Macragge went out.

Not much action in this chapter again, but that will change very soon. The next few chapters are likely going to be nothing _but_ action, so I chose to take the time and set the scene.

Concerning the next chapter of the RH : someone mentioned that they were disappointed that the events of Chemos would only get a single chapter instead of a whole book like Terathalion and Macragge. To that person, I want to say ... you will have more than enough. I have had _plenty_ of ideas for that chapter. In fact, it's entirely possible that I will need to change my plans and actually split the chapter in several parts. The only reason I haven't already done so is that I can't think of any good places to make the cut. As things stand, by the time the chapter is completed, it's going to be _massive._

Oh, and nightmarish, too. But since Bile is involved, I assume all of you already knew that.

As usual, please tell me what you thought of this chapter and what you are expecting for the next one.

Zahariel out.


	56. Illumination's Might

It began with a spark.

At the heart of one of the twelve daemon-built fortresses orbiting Drol Kheir, where the infernal core that provided it with power burned, a single spark burst from the amalgamation of Warp energy. It flew through the air, passing through the many, many wards securing the core with ease – for this was only a spark of ordinary fire, and the wards were set to prevent the passage of Empyric energies. The spark touched the oil-blessed robes of a nearby heretek, who had spent the last thirty-nine days before the core, endlessly chanting prayers and incantations to maintain the wards. That Dark Mechanicum priest was half-way through his shift : another thirty days, and one of his peers would relieve him. But as it turned out, the shift would end much, much sooner.

The heretek's robe erupted into flames, and the drone of incantations turned into a hideous screech of corrupted binary code as the inferno burnt through what little flesh remained under the vestment. The fire leapt from the heretek's charred corpse and onto the next one in the circle surrounding the core, and then to the one after that, and so on and on, until every one of the two-hundred and sixteen and sixteen hereteks keeping the core of the fortress contained were naught but screaming figures, contorting within the embrace of a powerful daemon's incarnate form.

This Neverborn was old, by these creatures' timeless reckoning. Hundreds of thousands of years ago, back when Mankind had been but a scattering of tribes barely evolved from their ape roots, they had feared the thunder and the lightning, and the strange wood-eating light it sometimes left behind when it struck a dry tree. For generations they had stayed away from this light, after the first to try and touch it had backed away screaming in terrible pain as his flesh burned from the heat.

But then, in the cold season, as a tribe huddled together in a cave to try and resist the cold while a storm raged outside, there was one who saw fire again burning in a lightning-struck tree, and felt the heat as he passed near it on his way back from the hunt. He sought to bring that heat back to his tribe, taking wood to the fire and carrying the flame to the cave. The heat brought comfort to his people, and more wood was brought to keep the fire lit as the night descended.

And in that night, as all slept in comforting warmth, one tribesman got too near to the fire, and the furs covering him touched the flames. He screamed as he burned, and his violent, panicked moves threw embers all across the cave, setting a dozen new infernos. Within moments, the whole tribe was screaming in fear and pain. In the years to come, other tribes would go through the same experience, and eventually Mankind would learn to control fire, to master it and use it as the first step of its path to technological ascendancy. But they would always remember to fear the flames, a fear that hearkened back to that very first moment of fire-brought torment.

The daemon had been born from the pain and terror of that moment. It roared with the screams of these primitive humans as they burned, spoke with the proto-language they had used to curse the one who had brought disaster into their lives. In the ages since then, it had grown mighty by feeding from the fears every technological advancement had ever caused, from the invention of the printing press to the clouds of self-replicating nanites that had been unleashed during the Dark Age of Technology. It was the fear of progress escaping the control of its architects, the nightmare of nuclear apocalypse and Man's hubris being punished by a cruel and perverse universe.

Khayon loathed the creature like he did few other Neverborn, for its very existence stood in opposition to everything the Illuminated Empire stood for. The Necromancer had bound it on Sortiarus, where it had come to bring down the works of the Thousand Sons. The daemon held no allegiance to the higher Powers, but, like all Neverborn whose existence pre-dated human civilization, was compelled to follow ancient debts and compacts, and those strings had been pulled by the Legion's enemies to send him to the Planet of the Sorcerers. Now those strings had been cut by Khayon and replaced by the Exalted Sorcerer's iron grip. He found the irony deeply satisfying.

With the tech-priests dead, the wards around the core faltered, and the chaotic energies bound within it grew out of control. A choir of alarms rose through the fortress' corridors, but it was far too late to do anything but run. A few Legionaries and their favoured mortals made it to the flight decks, but when the core detonated, the ball of incandescent Warp-fire engulfed their transports, incinerating all in an auspex-blinding conflagration that, to those with the ears to listen to it, sounded like a great, booming laugh, made of the screams of burning men and women.

So did the first space fort fall, but the fleet of the Slaaneshi Host, already locked into a long-range engagement with the Sons of Horus armada, barely had time to react before the next strike hit.

Then, there came a scream.

Throughout the corridors of another space fort, humans and mutants raised their hands to their heads as a singular scream pierced through the cacophony of noise and agony that echoed through the fortress, from the impaled slaves whose pain-filled blood sustained the pact that had created the fort to the chorus of Neverborn singers summoned from the court of the Prince of Pleasure. Even the Emperor's Children, long inured to mortal suffering, paused in their work as the scream overpowered even their blasted senses.

And with the scream came guilt, crushing and unforgiving. A great wail of mourning and despair rose from ten thousand throats as the weak-willed were crushed by the weight of culpability, something most had long since discarded. Everywhere they looked, they saw others who shared in their sin, and the only thing they could do – the only thing they could _think –_ was to take whatever weapon they had at hand and turn on each other. Riots erupted across the fortress and cultists of Slaanesh butchered one another, wailing and weeping, feeling sorrow for a sin none of them understood. Images flashed in their addled minds, of pyres and treacherous smiles, of a face twisted by the realization of betrayal and abandonment.

In the primitive ages of Old Earth, when kingdoms waged war with swords and bows, two nations had been at each other's throats for decades. Their people fought and their lands burned so that their rulers may satisfy their ambition and pride. Among that chaos, a girl had risen, driven to free her homeland from foreign invaders, convinced that she was doing the will of her God. Others rallied around her, and she went from success to success – a mere peasant defeating armies led by nobles.

But the girl was betrayed, abandoned by the king who owed her the turning of his fortunes. She was captured by her enemies, accused of witchcraft, and burned at the stake with the knowledge that those for whom she had fought had abandoned her. And so she died, choking on poisoned smoke, before her body was burned to ash and the ashes dispersed by those who feared her even in death. But from that betrayal rose a scream, of pain and hatred, that carried with it the weight of that king's guilt. In that age, the king and the land were one in the hearts of many, and the sin of the king was that of the land. The centuries of posthumous worship that followed that betrayal did nothing to weaken the daemon, who fed upon the hypocrisy of it all, twisting the girl's legacy to its own malevolent ends. The Frankish people had created a monster that would endure long after their millennia-long nation was naught but dust among the ruins of Old Earth.

This daemon had no shape. It had come to Sortiarus as a memetic infection that had spread across the mutant tribes of the Planet of the Sorcerers, driving them insane and turning them against their masters. Khayon had dragged it out of the souls of a thousand beastmen and imprisoned it, but not before it had led to the death of tens of thousands of Sortiarus' lesser citizens. The Necromancer hadn't understood why the Neverborn had been laughing while it was bound – or rather, he hadn't wanted to understand. He had refused to look into that particular mirror held up to his face.

With its crew too busy killing itself to man its guns, the fortress hung in the void, silent and useless. Its shields eventually collapsed under the fire of the Sons of Horus, and without tech-priests to reactivate them, the fortress was torn apart by fusion torpedoes and Nova detonations. And so it went, on and on. In each of the twelve infernal fortresses of Drol Kheir, the Thousand Sons summoned one mighty daemon, and it brought low what Eidolon and his pet Sorcerers had wrought, paid for in blood and souls. Daemons spawned from Mankind's long and blood-soaked past, that had crossed the path of Iskandar Khayon and been bound into the Necromancer's service, now released from their sorcerous prisons to perform their master's bidding.

The wind of pestilence that had decimated the tribes of North Amerika and left them at the mercy of the European invaders left one fortress empty save for the decaying bodies of its crew, lumped over at their stations, their faces locked into death-masks.

The vengeance of the antique city of Sparta's cast-off children, who had been thrown off cliffs at birth for not being perfect enough, rose as a monstrous, distorted human shape of blood, bone and bronze, and slaughtered all in its path, screaming its hate in the voice of a thousand murdered babes. The bane of Slaanesh's minions, it was come to the city of Al'Kyreh because of the exact opposing reason, wandering its streets for weeks in silent weeping before Khayon had bound it.

A creature covered in dusty bandages and wearing a golden mask fashioned after the ancient death-masks of the Geptian kings of Old Earth emerged from the treasure vault of one of the fortresses' commanding officer. Born from a legacy of several thousand years and the vengeance of that legacy upon the desecration of its tombs, the creature left in its wake bodies unmarked by violence, with naught but an expression of utter terror on their face to mark their demise.

Faceless legions of spear men burst from the flesh-pits of another fortress as the Thousand Sons established a sympathetic link with the still-living victims trapped within them. An army of these Warp-wrought creatures marched in line out of a portal built of pulsating meat, led by the shade of a general who had rebelled against his emperor during the First Millennium in a bid to increase his power. This precursor to the Warmaster had failed, betrayed and killed by his own son, but his actions had eventually caused millions of death and the collapse of one of Old Earth's most powerful empires, condemning him and his followers to fight in the realm of the Blood God for all of eternity. Khayon had encountered this army during his first trip through the Eye of Terror after the defeat of the Legions at Terra, and had bound it with a bitter laugh at the irony.

The death of glory, spawned in the trenches of the first war Mankind had fought on a worldwide scale with all the horrible weapons created by industry, stumbled on, covered in mud and spreading clouds of flesh-eating gases as it brought the peace of Nurgle to the slaves of the Youngest God. In its hand, it held a single pistol, whose bullet had started a war that had killed millions and taught the human race that there is no such thing as glory in war – a lesson it had all too easily forgotten in the millennia since. It had been left on Sortiarus in the aftermath of Mortarion's crusade.

A figure with a wide, blood-spattered grin, a dripping knife and a top hat led a host of nightmares into joyous slaughter, unleashing the repressed psychoses of an empire's elite upon victims who only thought they knew everything about pain. No Power laid claim to this being of cruel insanity, for it was too bloodthirsty for Slaanesh, too vicious for Khorne, its actions were too utterly meaningless and without purpose for Tzeentch, and Nurgle had no use for its selfish cruelty. It was a hollow, soulless thing, a grinning mask with no face hiding behind it.

Streams of volcanic ash engulfed mortals and Legionaries alike, turning them into pale statues frozen into their final moments similar to those that had been discovered in the ruins of Pompeii thousands of years before. Their final thoughts would echo in their skulls, their souls trapped within the calcified ashes until the statues were destroyed and their spirits released.

A silhouette clad in dirty yellow robes and wearing a crown of tarnished gold drove all who saw it – even if only through surveillance feeds – to violent insanity, tearing their eyes from their sockets and eating their own flesh. Under its hood dwelt the dreams of madmen and a secret that would shatter the universe, one that not even Khayon and Lilith had been able to take from it. It had been captured within one of Sortiarus' libraries, having walked right in, leaving a trail of screaming scholars in its wake before stopping and destroying a single book from the shelves, obliterating any trace of it in the records and catalogues. No one, not even the Dark Gods, knew why it had done so.

A construct of blades and blood, spawned from the death of a king and a nation's fiery revolt against its oppressors, cut the heads of all servants of Fulgrim it hunted, while around it the complex machinery that kept the station functioning broke apart under the strain of its entropic presence before utterly collapsing, yet another bright detonation piercing the Slaaneshi lines.

A thing that only bore the slightest resemblance to a man emerged from the burning reactors of another fortress, clad in the smoke from all the pyres where innocents had burned at his command, wielding a hammer emblazoned with a stylized "Iˮ and followed by the wraiths of those the first Grand Inquisitor had murdered before his legend had taken the last shred of his tattered soul and twisted it into an instrument of the Hell he had always thought he was opposing.

Back into his body aboard the _Tlaloc_ , the full awareness of his exhaustion hit Khayon like a bolt shell. It drove him to his knees, panting, each breath sending knives into his lungs, each beat of his hearts like a hammer blow to the chest. His vision was swaying, black spots dancing before his eyes. Worse, he could feel the pressure of the Eye on his soul, the tides of Chaos battering against the walls of his Rubric-reinforced will. The wards of the Tlaloc and around this room were powerful, but not even all the lore of the Fifteenth Legion could fully isolate a chamber from the Empyrean's threats while still allowing for rituals to be performed within. His display of sorcerous power had blazed very bright in the Sea of Souls, and the eyes of the Neverborn were upon him, filled with hatred for one who would enslave their kind as much as respect for the power of one who actually could manage such a feat. Before the Rubric had enhanced his power, controlling one such creature would have been the limit of his abilities – he may have been able to control two, or three, if he had been willing to burn himself out entirely in the process.

It had cost him, of course. The summons had drained him and his brothers, not so much because of the effort required to control the daemons than to send them past the fortresses' wards. But he had done it, even if the effort had nearly killed him. The twelve daemonic forts defending Drol Kheir had been destroyed, each brought low by a different Neverborn. The tarot cards he had used to bind them were still on the deck before him, the complex patterns drawn on them burned into the metal beneath as the parchment itself disintegrated. The metal would need to be torn out, melted, and cast into the heart of a star, for it would forever bear the influence of these mighty Neverborn.

 _Twelve_. Twelve daemons, each powerful enough to bring whole cities to madness and ruin, summoned at the same time, sent to locations hundreds of kilometers apart. Twelve daemons, part of the same ritual used to strike at the enemies of illumination. A good omen, if one believed.

He looked up, and saw Lilith staring at him from the other side of the circle, her face impassive.

No, the Necromancer corrected himself, a cold shiver in his hearts. Not twelve. _Thirteen._

* * *

AN : alright, that's done. Note to future self : next time, don't say there are _twelve_ of the frakking things.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter and look forward to seeing is you can find out what each daemon is referring to, in the case of those a bit more obscure. Don't blame yourself if you can't - I didn't put too much effort into making it obvious.

And now that I have found eleven horrible things that happened in Mankind's past and one other that ... well, that's for later ... if you will excuse me, I am going to go play something about a bunch of kids defeating evil through the power of love and friendship. I need a break from the grimdark.

Zahariel out.


	57. The Battle of Drol Kheir

War came to Drol Kheir in a rain of iron falling from burning skies. Within a few hours of the destruction of the infernal space fortresses, the Sons of Horus had been able to break through the Slaaneshi Host's fleet and were unleashing thousands of Legionaries unto the planet's surface. They landed a few kilometers outside the city, bringing with them tanks and Titans from allied Dark Mechanicum contingents, all directed by the hand of Abaddon. The First Captain of the Sixteenth Legion was an expert at warfare like few other souls in the entire galaxy, and under his leadership the Sons of Horus forces closed in on the Emperor's Children's stronghold like an adamantium fist.

The Slaaneshi city didn't have any walls – it hadn't been built according to any plans, only the followers of the Dark Prince raising up temples and hovels wherever fancy struck them in the area around their Legionary overlords' pleasure-palaces. The Sons of Horus fought their way through this outer labyrinth of dark streets, butchering all the degenerate slaves to ruin they encountered, while the earth trembled under the footsteps of Titans. The Slaaneshi Host had a handful of God-Machines left from their disastrous assault on Sortiarus, and the great warmachines emerged from their keeps to do battle with their kindred.

All Titans of the Dark Mechanicum were much changed from their time of service to the Golden Throne, but the things that fought against the Sixteenth Legion's allies were barely recognizable as Titans at all. They were more flesh than metal, endless screams echoing from mouths the size of Baneblades and drops of Warp-tainted liquid falling from their joints. Throngs of cultists followed them, raising up cups and other recipients, trying to catch the precious rain, heedless of the risk of being crushed under their walking gods' uncaring feet.

Astartes clad in sea-green armor fought Legionaries wearing baroque, multicoloured armaments, and though they howled their oaths of vengeance, they held onto their discipline, advancing slowly and methodically through the burning city. They weren't here simply for Eidolon : they were here to purge the Slaaneshi Host, remove its taint from the Eye of Terror and reclaim their pride and honor as the Warmaster's Legion. This was a war, not of conquest, but of extermination, and Abbadon had meticulously planned every detail of it. There would be no escape for the Lords of Slaanesh.

Only one group walked straight for the city's center, and its members wore armor of purest black. They were the Justaerin, the Sixteenth Legion's fabled Terminator elite, and at their head was Abaddon himself, his faithful second Falkus Kibre at one side and the Necromancer Iskandar Khayon at the other. The Exalted Sorcerer had recovered from his earlier exhaustion enough to take part in the battle – not that there was any chance that he wouldn't be there for the final showdown. He wasn't accompanied by his brothers – they were still aboard the _Tlaloc_ , recovering from their own efforts in the grand summoning that had torn open Drol Kheir's defenses. Still, the Necromancer was far from alone : three silhouettes followed him. Lucius the Eternal laughed as he slew his Legion kinsmen, while the wolf-daemon Gyre jumped in and out of the shadows, her teeth and coat red with blood. Lilith simply walked through the devastation, untouched by the conflict raging all around her, a small pocket of absolute calm surrounding her. From time to time one of the Justaerin glanced at her warily – for all that the warriors were used to daemonkind, her presence still unnerved them. Yet none dared say anything, for to do so would be to defy the Necromancer so soon after a clear reminder of the power he and the rest of the Illuminated Empire wielded.

The further they went, the greater the horrors that sought to block their path. In a very dark and twisted way, the daemons were actually the least of these, easily dispatched with a few sharp syllables from Iskandar. Even the Astartes worshipping the Dark Prince were little different from those they had all seen at the Siege of Terra, degenerates caring for nothing but their own pursuit of sensation. But then there were the _things_ the Slaaneshi Host had created. Creatures that had, at some point, been human, but had been remade by the whims of the Emperor's Children and the baleful touch of the Great Eye. Seeing them, Khayon wondered if perhaps he had judged Fabius Bile too harshly. The Clonelord was a cold bastard, of that there was no question, but at least his experiments served a _purpose_ , were carried out in order to _learn_ , to _progress._ The things they encountered in the streets of Drol Kheir had been created for … fun, for the vile amusement of their makers. There were creatures of pale flesh with too many limbs and no mouth, spherical beings that walked on six-fingered hands and looked at the world around them with a thousand eyes, great white worms with several human mouths, and even children fitted with cybernetic implants and mutated organs, crawling on the earth to bite and stab at the armored ankles of the Justaerin. One Terminator was swarmed by these creatures, their blades piercing his armor and injecting unholy concoctions into his bloodstream. After Khayon had burned the monstrosities off the unfortunate warrior, Abaddon killed him with the Talon of Horus, ending his pain-wracked convulsions.

Iskandar shielded his mind from the horrible thoughts of these wretches even as he put them out of their misery, trying to push away the blood-soaked presence of the Talon as well. But even his defenses couldn't keep out the presence of the labyrinth beneath his feet – the vast underground structure was calling out to him, a constant pull on his awareness. He got the sensation that it was _waiting_ for him, that it already knew he would end up within it eventually even though he had no reason and less intention to do so. Lilith's prophecy gnawed at his thoughts, but he forced himself to ignore it. His objective, the mission given to him by his Primarch, was within his reach. It had taken months to reach this point, but at least Eidolon was within his grasp. Soon the Soul-Severed would meet his rightful punishment for the harm he had inflicted upon Sortiarus, and for all the depravity he and his allies had let loose on this benighted world.

Like a spear cast at the heart of their enemy, the Justaerin continued their advance, and eventually reached the palace where Eidolon and his closest guards lurked. The aura of the Soul-Severed shone bright in Iskandar's soul-sight, a beacon of corruption and excess bloated with the power of the Youngest God. With Fulgrim banished and Fabius and Lucius turned to the service of the Illuminated Empire, the Lord-Commander had become the greatest of the Emperor's Children, and the favor of his degenerate god was flooding into him. But though this made tracking their quarry easy, there were also downsides to this – beyond the increased might of their foe, obviously.

'I can't get a trace of Erebus,' declared Iskandar as they approached the outer walls. 'This place is filled with an aura of debauchery so potent it blankets everything else.'

'You are sure he is here ?' asked Abaddon, cutting a creature with two fused heads into bloody ribbons with a casual swipe of the Talon as he spoke.

'He must be. He was at Sortiarus, and I doubt he would be welcome back to Sicarius. There is nowhere else for him to go. And he may be but one warrior without the support of his Legion, but the Dark Apostle is not to be underestimated. His cunning and callousness are without peer.'

'As are his cowardice and arrogance,' growled Abaddon. 'I was there when Horus skinned the bastard's face after the events of Signus Prime. Do you think we will find him at Eidolon's side ?'

'It is likely. Where else would he be ? He has nowhere to run this time. The _Destiny's Hand_ is still in orbit, but the _Tlaloc_ is tracking it – the moment it tries to break off the rest of the Slaaneshi armada, my ship will blow it to pieces. All of Erebus' tricks wouldn't be enough to hide him from the Anamnesis' eyes, and he knows it. No, he will be there to face us. Killing us and sowing chaos in our ranks is his only chance to turn this situation around, though I am sure he would tell you it is the will of the Gods that he put us upstarts down and restore the Pantheon's will in the Eye.'

They shared a chuckle at that, and continued their advance. Their target was a pair of great silver doors that led into the palace, guarded by a Company's worth of Emperor's Children, led by a choir of demented Noise Marines. Great braziers had been erected near the entrance, and the many-hued smoke that emanated from them had drawn thousands of cultists to the gates, driven to fanatical blood-lust by the drugs within. The Terminators cut through the press of mortal bodies with ease, but they were still slowed down by the slaughter, and the Emperor's Children opened fire, uncaring for the mortals they annihilated with their bolt shells and waves of twisted vibrations.

Abaddon was at the head of the advance, the psychic aura of the Talon drawing the cultists to him. The imprint of Sanguinius and the Emperor's death were a beacon to their deranged minds, but the First Captain simply cut or crushed all who stood in his way, not even slowing down. At his side, Iskandar had raised a kinetic barrier, holding the worst of the Noise Marines' assault at bay – even Terminator warplate could be destroyed by the power of their dreadful instruments, as the bodies of several of the Justaerin attested.

One of Khayon's daemons would have made quick work of the defenses, but he hadn't fully recovered yet, and he had to save his strength for when he faced Erebus. The Word Bearer had been one of the first of the Legions to learn the secrets of daemonology, and though his psychic powers were weak and artificial, his cunning and lore were vast. With the rest of his brothers still aboard the _Tlaloc_ , Abaddon had approved that he held back until his talents were truly needed.

With bolter and blade, the Justaerin tore a path through the throng of crazed cultists and reached the barricades erected at the foot of the silver gates, where they fought the Emperor's Children in direct combat. The gates were emblazoned with runes and twisting symbols of Slaanesh, which glowed with eldritch light as the potent souls of Legionaries were separated from their bodies nearby. Fighting with his sword _Itzica,_ Khayon sensed this accumulation of energy, and shouted a warning to the rest of the attackers. His call was just in time, for as the gates' reservoir of stolen life was filled, the sorcery woven into them activated.

Purple lightning crawled on the silver panels, and the images of daemons engraved upon them began to move, emerging from the metal, gaining dimension and shape. Soon, the Justaerin found themselves assaulted by a host of Slaaneshi Neverborn, laughing and shrieking as more and more of their kind poured from the portal that the gates had become. The Sons of Horus fell into a defensive circle, holding against their enemy's greater numbers, but they were unable to advance any further, and the claws of the daemons and the bolts of the remaining Emperor's Children were still taking their toll without them being able to inflict any true damage in retaliation.

'Any ideas, Sorcerer ?' shouted Lucius, carving a screaming thing of pink flesh and black nails apart with his whip as he called to Khayon. 'I confess this is not how I envisioned my death !'

'Help me get to the gates,' replied Iskandar. 'I should be able to close the portal !'

The Eternal laughed, a wild, joyful sound entirely out of place with the carnage surrounding them. Together, the sons of Fulgrim and Magnus separated themselves from the rest of the force, followed by Gyre. Lilith was nowhere to be seen, but Iskandar could sense her presence nearby – she was somewhere near the center of the Sons of Horus' circle, though he doubted she needed their protection. The trio danced through the ranks of the Slaaneshi daemons, cutting with blade and fang. Lucius moved faster than any other Legionary could hope to without chemical assistance, while Iskandar's body was fuelled by his psychic power, and Gyre was higher in the hierarchy of the Neverborn than any of the horde they faced. Even so, the daemons were many, and they all had suffered several wounds by the time they finally made it to the silver gates, seething with Warp energy, the symbols upon them nearly impossible to see through the haze of distorted air.

More daemons continued to emerge from the gates, and the trio had to fight simply to hold their ground. But now that they were close enough, Iskandar could sense the strands of sorcery woven into the metal, and understood how the Emperor's Children had built them. During the forging of the gates, their smiths had left hollows through the silver, like veins through a body, shaped into specific arcane configurations. Then, the Emperor's Children had poured into these tunnels a mixture of their own blood, that of countless slaves, various drugs, and the vitae of powerful daemons. With the energies stolen from the deaths of the combatants, the liquid flowed between the two panels, and this circulation opened a gateway for the Neverborn to come through.

Knowing how the gate functioned, it was simplicity itself for Khayon to understand how to seal it. Ironically, the easiest way to do so was to _open_ the actual, silver gates, severing the connection between the two panels and breaking the sorcerous pattern. The Necromancer raised his sword in both hands, focusing his power into the blade, and struck. The blow hit the gate exactly in the middle, and the two panels were separated and thrown inward on their hinges, slamming against the walls of the corridor behind them. The air rippled with the sound of the impact and the sudden severance of the arcane circle, and the host of daemons battling the Sons of Horus turned to glare at the Necromancer, hatred blazing in their eyes.

A few minutes of intense, nigh-desperate combat followed, as Khayon, Lucius and Gyre fought to hold their own while the Justaerin slaughtered the daemons from behind while they were focused on the trio to the exclusion of all other foes. Eventually, the remaining Emperor's Children and their infernal allies were dispatched, and the allied forces of the Illuminated Empire and the Sons of Horus stood before the opened way into Eidolon's fortress. Of the three hundred Justaerin that had followed Abaddon out of the _Vengeful Spirit_ and onto Drol Kheir, less than half that number remained, the majority of their casualties laying near the broken gates. But they didn't pause, and entered the fortress, their anger smoldering and their eyes burning with the promise of death for any who dared hinder their path to the Soul-Severed.

They passed by the gory remains of many willing and unwilling sacrifices, including the crucified corpses of warriors from warbands the Slaaneshi Host had crushed after its defeat at Sortiarus. Among these were the mutilated but still-living bodies of several Sons of Horus, hailing from a small splinter of the Sixteenth Legion that had either never heard Abaddon's call to gather at Maeleum or had refused to answer it. All they could do was give these unfortunate souls the release of death before moving on : such was the extant of their injuries and the cruelty of their restraints' design that not even the magic of an Exalted Sorcerer could save them.

And finally, they came upon the throne-room, where Eidolon was waiting for them. The Soul-Severed sat sprawled on a throne of silver and gold, with countless spikes on which was stretched the still-living skin of a a hundred faces, staring at the intruders with mad desperation in their eyes. At his side stood Erebus, the Dark Apostle, in his scarlet armor, holding a crozius glowing with infernal fire. He was looking at the invaders with a hate-filled scowl that twisted his tattooed face, and was surrounded by a circle of moaning figures covered in rags and chains, their souls burning bright in Iskandar's second sight. Daemonhosts, the Necromancer immediately recognized; but those were hasty, desperate creations, their bindings placed mere hours ago and not nearly as restrictive as caution dictated. Only the powerful will of Erebus was keeping the eight creatures under the Dark Apostle's control … for now. Several dozens Noise Marines also populated the room, their armors twisted and baroque, their weapons trembling with barely-contained energy.

'Cousins !' boomed Eidolon, his arms spread wide in welcome. He was smiling, his mouth opened far too wide into an expression that promised nothing but suffering. 'How good of you to come all the way here to visit us. Now, let us get on to the business of killing each other, shall we ?'

* * *

AN : And so we come to the final confrontation between Eidolon, Erebus, Abaddon and Khayon. This certainly is going to be an epic battle, and one that's going to be very interesting to write. And what comes next ... well, that's a secret for me alone to know for now.

Lots of reactions to the last chapter. You all appear to have enjoyed the daemons, though in hindsight, the inclusion of the Yellow King may have been a mistake. I understand the desire to read a lot into it, but really, it was just a funny addition. Also, in the book _The Crimson King_ , there is a scene in Magnus' library where Lorgar and Magnus are talking, and Magnus mentions that one of the books is said to be a cursed play that drives anyone who reads it insane. When Lorgar asks him if it is true, the Crimson King answers that he has no idea : he never read it. The reference to the Yellow King was just a reference to that.

Though the secret he hides is another matter entirely ...

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please let me know if you did, and why if you didn't. Progress continues on the RH's next chapter - _slowly_ continues. I should be able to get some good writing done this week-end, though.

Zahariel out.


	58. Those Who Rule

It was the daemonhosts that moved first, with speed beyond even that of the transhuman warriors who had come to make war on Drol Kheir. Caged into mortal flesh, bound by the sigils branded onto the skin of their vessels, they flew toward the Sons of Horus, propelled by arcs of eldritch lightning and wings of shadow and flame. They screamed and laughed and wept as they flew, and spoke horrible lies and far more terrible truths, their eyes blazing with the fires of the Warp.

Lilith rose to meet them, and the air above the Legionaries soon crackled with unleashed infernal energies. Below the battling fiends, the Sons of Horus charged the Emperor's Children, who answered the charge with a blast of sonic energy. Eidolon was the first to scream, unleashing the full terrible power of his voice, and, in a staggering display of synchronization made possible only thanks to the dark gifts of Slaanesh, ever Kakophoni fired his unnatural weapon at the exact moment the wave of sound washed over him, the power of the attacks combining into something that could have shaken a Land Raider apart. But Iskandar was there, and he raised his hands in a protective gesture. Not even an Exalted Sorcerer could match such raw power head-on : instead, Khayon turned it aside, sending it crashing into the walls and ceiling behind the Sons of Horus.

The baroque architecture exploded into a cloud of dust and debris that fell upon the black-clad Terminators as they continued their charge, while Iskandar fixed his gaze upon Erebus, who had watched the display of sorcerous might without flinching. As the Space Marines of two Legions met, the Exalted Sorcerer calmly strode amidst the melee, and any Noise Marine that tried to touch him was brought down by his daemon wolf. Gyre leapt from shadow to shadow, her fangs dripping with blood so drug-laced it would have killed any true wolf instantly. Those few attacks that made it past the familiar's watch were repelled by Lucius with ease, the Eternal laughing as he guarded the Necromancer's back, who didn't even appear to notice. He was wholly focused on Erebus.

Back when they had planned the attack on Drol Kheir, it had been decided Iskandar was the most suited to deal with the Dark Apostle. It hadn't been an easy decision : there were many with a grudge against Erebus among the Sons of Horus. But Iskandar was the one with the best shot at defeating that treacherous snake. He had walked out of the _Vengeful Spirit_ 's strategium after swearing to no less than twenty-seven different warriors that he would give Erebus a good blow in their name – there would have been more, but Abaddon had intervened and saved Khayon, though not before asking the same thing of him, the glimmer of a smile in his golden eyes.

As the Necromancer advanced, he was already battling Erebus, his mind launched into a psychic attack on Erebus' psyche. The Dark Apostle's brain was a fortress, protected by powerful defenses and a lot of nasty, daemon-powered traps. Erebus may not have been born a psyker, but his knowledge of sorcery rivalled that of the Thousand Sons, and the many deals he had made with the Neverborn had increased his power even further. Erebus had made many such compacts, with Warp entities that had been gods to entire civilizations, and he had offered them awful things in return for power and knowledge. Khayon could see the marks these deals had left upon the Dark Apostle, and he could guess from their shape that most of them had been paid for in the blood of others – including Erebus' own Legion kin. The strength Erebus could draw from these pacts was lessened now that he no longer sat on the Dark Council and led the Word Bearers, but he remained just as vicious and cunning. A cold, cold rage began to grow into Khayon's soul, and he hammered it into a weapon, using the power of the Rubric and the wisdom of the Enumerations.

As Iskandar advanced with Lucius at his side, Abaddon came face to face with Eidolon. Both warriors had gone into battle without helmet, and their faces were full of battle-joy as they clashed. The Talon of Horus met the Soul-Severed hammer in a blow that would have shattered a lesser lightning claw. For a few seconds, Abaddon held his opponent's weapon in place, until Eidolon's jaw began to open, air rushing in to fill his expanding air-sacks. Ezekyle moved, disengaging the Talon and rising the bolter in his other hand, ramming the gun's twin barrels into Eidolon's chest and opening fire at point-blank range. Two enormous craters appeared on the chestplate of Eidolon, shards of ceramite flying all around the two duellists. The force of the detonation pulled them apart, Eidolon staggering backward, the breath knocked from his lungs. The Soul-Severed laughed, drew back his hammer, and went back at Abaddon with a too-wide smile.

Elsewhere, Iskandar and Erebus finally faced each other. Their bodies began to fight while their minds were still at war, silver blade clashing against black crozius, every blow and parry reinforced by the power of the Warp. Lesser daemons flashed into existence around them, born of their fury, before being obliterated by the same energies that had created them. Lucius stepped back, holding his sword and whip, ready to strike down any who might try to interfere, but there was little need. The other combatants gave the two sorcerers a wide berth, and even Gyre remained on the sidelines, watching, waiting for her chance, acidic saliva dripping from her maw. The blood of the Dark Apostle would be a find repast indeed, one that many daemons had sought over the years, yet few had been able to taste. If Erebus showed even the slightest opening …

Silver sword and black crozius clashed again and again, before locking together, the two combatants pitting their physical and sorcerous strength against each other. The psychic pressure created by their confrontation intensified, causing warriors who strayed too close to cry out as spikes of pure agony stabbed into their brains. These unfortunate Legionaries saw glimpses of Prospero burning, of all the horrors Khayon had witnessed in the Great Crusade, the Heresy, and the Legion Wars. Those truly cursed by the Gods instead saw images from Erebus' own past, of all the cruelties and betrayals he had committed. The Sons of Horus who saw these things cried out in shock and hatred, while the members of the Kakophoni screamed their pleasure out loud, revelling in the monstrosity of their ally's action. And Lucius, who stood closest of all and saw everything, merely laughed, dancing among the closest enemy warriors to a tune only he could hear.

'I see you have adopted Fulgrim's pet,' called out Erebus, sounding as if he were taking a leisurely walk and not desperately fighting for his life. Khayon had to admire that, even if he loathed everything else about him. 'Do you even know what it is you have bound to yourself, _Sekhandur_ ?'

He spoke Khayon's given name with impeccable Tizcan pronunciation, and the Necromancer's blood boiled to hear the language of his murdered homeworld on the lips of one such as the Dark Apostle. He knew the words were nothing but an attempt at provoking him, a lure to get him to lower his guard. It made him want to laugh that Erebus was desperate enough to resort to such a ploy. The first of the Dark Apostle, corrupter of Horus Lupercal, reduced to telling an Exalted Sorcerer of the Illuminated Empire that _daemons were dangerous and not to be trusted !_

So he laughed, right in Erebus' face. Whatever reaction the Word Bearer had been expecting, that hadn't been it, and his eyes widened a fraction in response. It was only a fraction of a second worth of a diversion, but it was enough. Khayon freed a portion of his mind from the unseen battle, and with it, he ripped one of the gaudiest sculptures from the nearest wall and rammed it into Erebus' bare head with enough strength to crack the ugly thing apart – and the statue along with it.

'You should have worn your helmet,' said Khayon to Erebus as he struggled on the floor, blood flowing from his fractured skull. His crozius had slipped from his fingers, still burning with unholy flames where it laid on the floor. Then, without waiting for a reply, Iskandar buried his sword into the black hearts of the man responsible for so much death and suffering.

'I … I am the chosen servant … of the Gods …' gasped Erebus, blood flowing from his chest.

'Then _go to them_ ,' snarled Khayon, twisting Itzica even deeper into the Dark Apostle's chest. The silver sword ignited with psychic power as the Necromancer channelled the strength of the Rubric through it, burning Erebus' many protections to nothingness. All the tricks and prepared escapes, all the trump cards and schemes the Dark Apostle had spent so long accumulating were obliterated, cutting off every escape route Erebus had thought he had left. There would be no last-minute teleportation to the _Destiny's Hand_ this time.

The blast of psychic power also ripped through Erebus' organs, breaking his hearts to bloody pieces, still floating within his ravaged torso. Psychic fire, so bright it was beyond color, burst from his eyes and mouth as it consumed everything inside him. And in his final moments, just before the reaper claimed him, Erebus saw the true face of the Powers he had served for so long, and his face contorted into a grimace of horror, before slackening into a charred black ruin as his soul left his body and went on to its rightful reward.

Iskandar watched it for a moment, just to make sure this wasn't a trick, before pulling his blade free. Gyre burst from her master's shadow, and began to gnaw upon the blackened flesh, tearing hunks of charred meat from the bones. Khayon left her to it, and turned to witness the end of Eidolon's and Abaddon's duel. Both of the warlords bore fresh wounds, each more than capable of felling a mortal man. They were both smiling, for despite all the hatred that existed between them, between their Legions, they were both far more similar than either would ever have admitted. Two legends fighting to the death, in what may very well be the last battle of the Legion Wars, where the Illuminated Empire would dispose of the last obstacle remaining on its path to hegemony within the Eye of Terror. Neither were the most skillful warriors of their Legions. They were brawlers, warrior-kings who fought with every weapon and mean at their disposal, with victory as their only goal. Once, Eidolon had been as prideful as any son of Fulgrim, obsessed with perfection in all things – ironically, falling into the clutches of Slaanesh had _loosened him_ _up_ in that regard, when so many of his Legion had been consumed by the unending pursuit of perfection.

Abaddon and Eidolon both wore Terminator armor, but Abaddon moved with the heavy warplate like another Astartes would move in standard armor, with an ease born of centuries of practice. By rights, Eidolon should have had the same advantage, but the Lord-Commander's moves were sudden and brutal, as if he had never completely recovered from the decapitation he had suffered at Fulgrim's hands. Moves that were pure instinct and reflexes to Abaddon had to be deliberately made by the Soul-Severed, and it showed in how he fought. Eidolon compensated for this through the sheer strength he put into every blow, so that even a glancing hit was enough to dent Abaddon's armor and send the First Captain reeling from the impact.

Iskandar couldn't interfere, but should Eidolon somehow prevail, he was determined to destroy the Soul-Severed himself. He had been tasked with neutralizing the threat of Eidolon by Magnus himself, and he would not fail, even if it meant he had to break the letter of his agreement with the Sons of Horus. He could sense Lucius tense at his side, hungering to intervene, to bloody his blade with the vitae of his former Lord-Commander. But before either of them had to, Abaddon ended it.

In a single motion, Abaddon let a downward strike of Eidolon hit him on the left shoulder directly, with such strength that the power hammer tore through the Terminator armor and ripped the arm off in a bloody mess. Without even twitching, Abaddon seized the opening he had thus created and rammed all five blades of the Talon of Horus into his opponent's chest. Eidolon stared into Abaddon's golden gaze, and the Soul-Severed gurgled something that might have been a chuckle. Liquid flowed from his wounds, the scent of chemicals and drugs overpowering the iron tang of blood. Held in place by the Talon's blades, the Lord-Commander tried to speak. It took him several tries, his life sputtering in Khayon's second sight, but eventually he managed to spit out :

'The Beacon … has marked you, Ezekyle. The Gods will not … forgive that. They are coming for you … and the rest of your Legion of mongrels. I will … be watching …'

Then the head of the Soul-Severed tilted, and Abaddon ripped the Talon from his slain foe's chest, letting the body fall to the ground with a thunderous _thud._ Across the rest of the chamber, the battle was ending – the Sons of Horus were putting the last Noise Marines down, and up above, Lilith was dismembering the final daemonhost, pulling it apart with her deceptively thin hands. Iskandar walked to the First Captain of the Sixteenth Legion, Lucius a step behind him.

'It's over,' panted the Necromancer, his body and mind still reeling from the effort it had taken to overcome Erebus' sorcerous protections. He was looking at Eidolon's body – even in death, the Soul-Severed was _massive._ Lucius was at his side, his gaze also locked onto his fallen Lord-Commander, his cocky smile gone. 'I suppose we should burn that, just in case … Come over here, Ezekyle – let me take a look at that wound. That was … immensely reckless, by the way ...'

 _No_ , whispered Lilith's voice in his head. _It has only just begun._

Khayon sighed. He was growing tired of the daemon's cryptic warnings. He had brought her with him onto Drol Kheir in the hope that they would become clearer, but no such thing had happened. During the entire battle, he had been worried that Eidolon or Erebus were going to unveil some last-minute trick, some desperate gamble. In the Eye of Terror, a warrior with his back to the wall could call upon some _really_ nasty desperate measures, and Erebus' pet daemonhosts had been but one of the tamest such options. Yet nothing had happened. The alliance of the Illuminated Empire and the Sons of Horus had _won._ Soon the last dregs of the Slaaneshi Host would be wiped out, and Khayon would return to Sortiarus in triumph – and with another Legion to add to the Empire's ranks.

 _Iskandar !_ The voice of Khayon's mentor, silent during the entire battle, was suddenly in his head, and there was an unfamiliar urgency to it. _A new fleet has entered the system. It's the Twelfth and Seventeenth Legions, and they are_ _here_ _in numbers_ _not seen since Skalathrax_ _!_

 _Come to help us destroy the Slaaneshi Host, have they ?_ thought Iskandar, amused. _Well, they are too late for the party, but they can still help us with the clean-up if they_ _ask nicely._

 _No !_ shouted Ashur-Kai. _Iskandar, they aren't answering our hails, and what passes for the World Eaters' formation is clearly prepared for battle. They -_

The psychic link between the Necromancer and the White Seer was suddenly severed. Stunned, Iskandar reached out, but he could sense nothing down the bond the two Exalted Sorcerers had shared for years. The last thing that had come through, just before the connection had been lost, had been a sensation of … surprise ? Shock ? Horror ? … _Fear_?

 _Ashur-Kai ? ASHUR-KAI !_

Iskandar screamed, the very air around his physical body rippling with the strength of his psychic call. What few items had survived through the battle shattered, and the remaining Space Marines stepped back, gritting their teeth painfully. He tried to listen, to reach out with his mind, but Drol Kheir's psychic landscape was full of the screams of the dead and the damned and the insidious whispers of that accursed subterranean labyrinth. Without an active link, it was all but impossible to establish a clear line of communication with the armada. Again and again, in spite of his exhaustion, the Necromancer called to his brother and mentor, heedless of the damage he was inflicting upon his allies or himself …

… but no answer came, save for a strange, mocking, horribly familiar, _double_ laughter.

* * *

AN : ...

And so the endgame begins ...

Zahariel out.


	59. And Those Who Serve

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe nor any of its characters.

Warning : this chapter contains spoilers for the _Horus Heresy_ book series. It's true of this entire story, but this chapter is worst than most in that regard.

* * *

For the first time since the fall of Beta-Garmon, the Sons of Horus were victorious. Saved from the brink of dissolution by their First Captain, reforged into a mighty weapon of war once more and directed toward their hated foe by the Illuminated Empire, the sons of the Warmaster burned with fierce joy as they took down the Slaaneshi Host. Given purpose once more, they were finally freeing themselves of the grief that had held them in thrall since Horus' death at Terra.

While Abaddon led the attack onto the Slaaneshi Host's leadership, the battle of Drol Kheir had continued, both on the planet's surface and in orbit. The great city of the Emperor's Children and their allies was burning, its mutant and cultist population fleeing for the wilderness, terror of the transhumans walking among the flames finally overpowering their sensation-addled minds. The dying screams of daemons echoed amidst the rubble of their temples, the Aether churning with the essences of returned Neverborn as well as those newly spawned by the carnage.

The corpses of Titans laid amidst the ruins alongside wrecked tanks and the bodies of thousands of Third Legion's warriors. Based on the estimates of the Sons of Horus' data-collectors, nearly two-third of the sons of Fulgrim who had survived the Siege, the Legion Wars and the battle of Sortiarus had perished in that battle. With their Daemon Primarch still banished, their greatest Lord-Commander dead and another having joined the enemy, the Emperor's Children had, in effect, stopped being a player in the Eye of Terror for the foreseeable future. Isolated packs of Legionaries still fought, trying to find a way off Drol Kheir and to their ships, but even those who succeeded were far from safe.

Above the planet, the fleet of the Host was falling apart, coordination between warbands vanishing in the face of imminent doom. Captains were trying to pull their ships out of the battle raging in orbit, to flee for the system's edge. Their enemies were taking full advantage of the confusion, focusing their fire on vulnerable vessels and leaving the gutted husks to float in the void. Usually, there would have been boarding actions, but almost every Legionary was on the surface, and the Sons of Horus didn't want the Slaaneshi-corrupted ships of the Third Legion that much anyway. And so the void war was fought with lances and torpedoes, with the fleet-masters of the Sixteenth Legions working together to inflict as much destruction as possible upon the Emperor's Children.

The _Pride of the Emperor_ , once the mighty flagship of the Third Legion, was bleeding fuel, air and lives from a hundred wounds as it tried to escape the Sons of Horus fleet. Its shipmaster was especially wary of the _Vengeful Spirit_ , whose machine-spirit revelled in this rarest of opportunity to murder one of her own sister. Both vessels had tasted the blood of Primarchs – Sanguinius' and Horus' for the _Vengeful Spirit_ , Guilliman's for the _Pride of the Emperor_ – and the power within that blood had affected them. Just as there were crystal statues of the warriors of the Siege forming in the corridor of the Sons of Horus' flagship, the _Pride of the Emperor_ was haunted by the ghosts of all the billions the Third Legion had butchered in its mad quest for sensation, faces moaning and screaming from the living walls. And oh, how these faces screamed as the _Pride_ burned, struck again and again, its void-shields collapsed and its hull slowly being sheared away.

Yet still the ship fought, lashing back at its attackers with all manners of awful weaponry. Terrible symphonies were broadcast from powerful vox-transmitters, driving the crews of approaching vessels to madness. Flight bays opened to let loose packs of gunships and hordes of daemons that swarmed the fighter wings unleashed by the Sons of Horus. Across the entire flagship, cults of mutants broke the seals placed upon the dark things that had been drawn to its depravity in centuries past and imprisoned by the Emperor's Children, speaking incantations placed into their minds by the Dark Prince to compel the entities into leaving the _Pride_ and attacking its enemies. Slaanesh had lost much to the Illuminated Empire already, and the God of Pain and Pleasure would not accept the loss of such a potent weapon as the warped Gloriana-class vessel easily.

Despite all this, the _Pride of the Emperor_ would have been destroyed eventually, if not for a sudden shift in the battle, which drove the shipmaster of the Vengeful Spirit to abandon the pursuit. Wounded near unto death, the _Pride_ did not wait to see what had saved it : its shipmaster ordered the engines at full power, and the vessel finally broke through the reorganizing ranks of the Sons of Horus' armada, making full speed for the system's edge, its Geller Field already flickering into place. It vanished into the storms surrounding Drol Kheir, with only a few hundred Chaos Marines having managed to reach it in time. A few more ships followed its lead, taking advantage of the sudden lack of interest of the Sons of Horus to slip through the nest.

At the opposite edge of the system, ships of crimson and brass flew alongside vessels of red and black, tearing from the Empyrean in a swarm of shrieking Neverborn. The Word Bearers ships emerged from the storm in perfect order, the relative position of each vessel unaltered by their journey through the tides of Chaos thanks to the endless rituals and chants taking place on each one.

The Seventeenth Legion was led by an enormous vessel, dwarfing even the _Vengeful Spirit_ with her size. She was called the _Blessed Lady_ , and she had fought in the Shadow Crusade of Ultramar, where she had exacted a heavy toll in Imperial lives. Once, she had been one of three such vessels, sister to the _Furious Abyss_ and the _Trisagion_ , built in secret by Lorgar's allies within the Mechanicum before the beginning of the Heresy. But the _Furious Abyss_ had been lost before it had even reached the Five Hundred Worlds, and the _Trisagion_ had been the only flagship of the Seventeenth Legion to sail to Terra at the side of the Warmaster's armada after Lorgar's attempted usurpation of Horus and his exile from the rebellion's high council.

Now only the _Blessed Lady_ remained, remade by the powers of the Warp into something altogether more sinister and terrible than before. Dozens of ships sailed at her side, bearing icons from many Chapters. On the bridge of the _Tlaloc_ , Ashur-Kai recognized among these symbols several he knew for a fact belonged to Chapters whose masters had sworn bloody oaths of vengeance against one another. Yet now they sailed side by side in perfect formation, their alignment forming occult configurations that had sped their journey through the Eye and protected them from the worst of its perils. There were few reasons the White Seer could think of for such unity, and he dreaded every single one of them. He had not foreseen this – but then, he had been able to glimpse _nothing_ of any significance in the Aether since they had left Sortiarus and sailed to Maeleum to recruit the Sons of Horus for the Illuminated Empire. He had suspected it was the actions of the Black Crusade taking place outside the Eye that were muddling the currents of Fate beyond his ability to read, but now, he wondered if his blindness may not have been orchestrated by a more malign intent.

While the Word Bearers sailed as a Legion, the World Eaters' ships were a loose gathering of packs, each vessel a solitary predator by nature only tolerating the presence of the others because of the promise of greater prey. The hierarchy of warbands could be glimpsed in the distance between each smaller group, as could the uneasy alliances, rivalries and feuds that marked any gathering of more than one follower of the Blood God. The undisputed alpha of that pack was the _Conqueror_ , the great battleship that had been the flagship of the Twelfth Legion.

The Twelfth and Seventeenth Legions had come to the fallen stronghold of the Slaaneshi Host prepared for war, for all that the battle already seemed to be over. If they had arrived earlier, or had sent any word of their coming in advance – indeed, if they only voxed their intent now – then the Sons of Horus might have welcomed these new arrivals. After all, the feud between the sons of Angron and Fulgrim was greater even than the one the Phoenician's get had with the Sons of Horus. And while the Word Bearers had remained distant from the Illuminated Empire, Khayon had informed Abaddon that the Seventeenth weren't their enemies either. But there was no message, no telepathic communication, nothing, and thus the first instinct of the fleet's captains was to prepare for the worst. Despite their victory, the Sons of Horus had still taken losses against the Slaaneshi Host, and were outnumbered two-to-one by the combined fleet. And that was without counting the _Blessed Lady_ , whose firepower was rumoured to be greater even than that of the _Vengeful Spirit_.

Aboard the _Tlaloc_ , the one hundred warriors of Khayon's company left their quarters and went to their posts. They hadn't recovered completely from the exertions of the ritual that had destroyed the daemonic fortresses yet, but they could fight, and command the powers of the Warp better than most conjurers from other Legions. Ashur-Kai himself had spent the few hours since that great feat of spellworking on the bridge, using his superior power as an Exalted Sorcerer and his greater experience to accelerate his own recovery even as he monitored the situation in orbit and on the planet, through the Anamnesis' senses and his bond to Khayon.

As the newcomers approached, the Sixteenth Legion's armada formed up to meet them, still unsure as to their intents. Hails went unanswered, and the only thing the witches of the fleet could sense was that an immense power lurked within the approaching armada, its presence altering the very currents of the Warp around it. Its exact nature was shrouded from their sight by the wards on the Word Bearers' vessels, which scoured the minds of those who peered too closely with dark energies. At the very least, they could tell their masters that Angron, the dread Red Angel and Daemon Primarch of the World Eaters, was not aboard any of the Twelfth Legion's vessels. After the returns of Mortarion and Fulgrim, that information was a relief to the commanders of the Sons of Horus' armada. They had seen Angron fight on Terra, and not even the boldest son of Lupercal wanted to have to face the Red Angel.

On the view-screens, Ashur-Kai saw the _Blessed Lady_ open fire, her entire array of energy lances aimed at one single target. Such was the distance left between the two fleets that Ashur-Kai had time to realize the target of this awesome firepower was none other than the _Tlaloc._ His mind still connected to the Anamnesis, the White Seer acted immediately, his thoughts racing on overdrive. He reached through his link to the machine-queen that had once been Itzara Khayon and seized control of the Warp engines.

In the eyes of the rest of the fleet, the _Tlaloc_ appeared to vanish in a flash of blinding light the moment her shields were struck by the fire from the _Blessed Lady._ Not even a speck of dust remained in the aftermath, so complete had been the ship's annihilation. There were plenty in both armadas who suspected the vessel had escaped somehow – the resourcefulness of the Thousand Sons in the face of certain doom was legendary among the Nine Legions. But there wasn't any time to waste on such theories, for the rest of the new fleet had reached firing range.

Once again, the Drol Kheir system was the theater of war on a scale that rarely plagued the galaxy, as Legion fleets fought with all they had. The Sons of Horus had the advantage of unity and discipline, while the World Eaters rushed onward like sharks scenting blood in the water. But most Sons of Horus were still planetside, and as soon as the boarding actions began, the warriors of Khorne unleashed their bloodlust. With packs of Berzerkers rampaging across their decks, the ships of the Sixteenth Legion were unable to stop their foes from making planetfall.

Word Bearers drop-pods and gunships descended, followed by hundreds of transports packed to the brim with cult troops. Reality bent and tore apart, and immense Daemon Titans emerged from nowhere to march along the armies, summoned from their daemon worlds by sorcerous pacts and the terrible power invested in the Seventeenth Legion's leader on this world. Tanks and crimson livery rolled on the dry earth, their machine-spirits long gone and replaced by infernal entities. As the Sons of Horus emerged from the ruins of the Slaaneshi Host's city of nightmares to take up defensive positions at its edge, auspex scans indicated that around twenty thousand Bearers of the Words were marching toward them, along with hundreds of thousands of mortal slaves.

The bulk of the forces descending from orbit belonged to the Seventeenth Legion, but there was a group of World Eaters that came down as well, flying to Drol Kheir aboard a flotilla of Stormbirds and Thunderhawks that bore relatively few signs of their time in the Eye of Terror. They touched down some distance apart from the Word Bearers' landing ground and discharged their cargo of around five hundred Astartes – half one of the Companies of old. The sons of Angron marched toward the city without hurry, but they had landed closer to it than the Seventeenth's army, and would reach its border at around the same time.

Leading them was a figure that was as legendary among the Nine Legions as it was infamous : Khârn, Captain of the Eighth Company, Equerry to the Primarch Angron. The Betrayer of Skalathrax and champion of Khorne, he whose deeds had broken the Twelfth Legion. Some said he had done so to save the World Eaters from a slow death within the Eye, others that he had sought to punish them for some sin against Khorne – but most simply believed him mad with the bloodlust of the Lord of Skulls. Right now, he walked ahead of the rest of the World Eaters, his axe _Gorechild_ held in a loose grip. The hundreds of warriors behind him gave him a wide berth, all too aware of his unpredictable temper. The spirit of Drol Kheir, tainted by the Emperor's Children, moaned in pain at the intrusion of Khorne's chosen warriors.

By that point, the strike team that had killed Eidolon and Erebus had emerged from the Soul-Severed's palace, setting fire to the place before leaving with a handful of infernal incendiaries. Khayon hadn't said a word since his outburst in the throneroom, and the rest of the group was keeping a wary eye on him. Even Gyre was unusually subsumed, lurking some distance away from her master, watching him like dog fearful of his owner's temper. Only Lucius appeared entirely unconcerned, walking right next to the Necromancer, smiling widely as they crossed the ruins of his Legion's last great stronghold in the Eye of Terror.

They stood in the ruins of what had once been a memorial of some sorts, judging by the broken statuary on the ground. The ceiling of the place had collapsed during the battle, but it was still high enough to provide a clear view of the army marching onto the ruined city.

'If those numbers are accurate,' grunted Falkus Kibre, reading the auspex returns on his retinal display, 'and I have no reason to believe they aren't, since that would mean us getting lucky, then we are outnumbered nearly two to one. I _told_ you we should have called for more of our brothers, Ezekyle. This is a Legion war now, and we are far from our full strength.'

'All those who were willing to follow me had already come to Maeleum,' answered Abaddon without looking at his old Mournival comrade, his golden gaze fixed upon the crimson horde in the distance. The wound at his left shoulder had been given some treatment – cauterized with the same flames that ravaged the city behind them, and covered in a coat of Mechanicum ingenuity to protect the weak spot in his Terminator warplate. The Apothecary who had treated the injury hadn't even tried to convince him to withdraw from the front lines – clearly he knew Abaddon well. 'A victory here would have convinced the rest to join us, save for a few die-hard.'

Abaddon was speaking truth, and they all knew it. The Sons of Horus had been broken apart by the death of their Primarch and the shameful flight to the Eye of Terror. The return of the _Vengeful Spirit_ , Abaddon's wielding of the Talon, and his own personal charisma, had done much to heal these wounds. But there were still entire warbands of thousands of warriors who had cast away their ties to the Sixteenth Legion entirely, and not even these emblems of past glories would bring them back. Only victory would make them dare return to the old colors.

'Sorcerer,' said Abaddon to Khayon, addressing him directly for the first time since the events of the throneroom. If the First Captain was at all worried, it didn't show on his face, nor did the pain he had to still feel from his lost arm. 'Eidolon is dead : our compact is over. You can do as you please now. If you have any trick up your sleeve that can get us out of this, don't hesitate to use them.'

Khayon was about to answer when another rent opened in reality. This one was smaller than the one through which the Daemon Titans had crossed, yet the sense of foreboding Khayon felt as it appeared was just as great, perhaps even greater. He knew, without knowing how, that whatever was about to cross through that threshold would be the leader of the coalition of Twelfth and Seventeenth Legion forces that had come to Drol Kheir – the one who had somehow united the factions of the Word Bearers and thrown them into this war against the Sons of Horus and their allies from the Illuminated Empire.

A colossal figure, nearly six meters high, passed through the hole in the universe, which closed behind it with a screaming sound. Great black wings rose from its back, and the Aether around it boiled with its power. Yet Khayon's second sight could also see the chains that bound this entity, biting deep into its very essence and restraining its every action.

The rest of the advancing army remained a respectful distance behind this giant as it approached, save for two smaller figures that walked in its shadow, one on its left, the other on its right. On the left was Khârn, and on the right was a Word Bearer none of them had met before, but whose armor was covered in sorcerous charms and trinkets, his aura rippling with dark knowledge and power. This infernalist was nowhere near the equal of Erebus, but he was clearly no weakling either.

Khayon recognized the giant creature. He had faced it once before, on Sortiarus, amidst the ruins of Tizca. It made sense that he would be here : with Erebus dead and Lorgar still in seclusion, who else remained capable of pulling the Word Bearers and World Eaters together ?

'Argel Tal,' breathed the Necromancer, his dread at the Daemon Prince held in check by his concern for his warband. His voice turned cold when he asked : 'where is my ship, daemon ?'

' **Gone,'** replied Argel Tal, his voice every bit as disturbing as the Necromancer remembered. **'Destroyed or lost, only the Gods know. It matters not to me or them either way … but it does matter to you, does it not ? Your attachment to your sister was always your greatest weakness. Not that I don't understand, but you should have known the Gods would use that against you. It is what they do, what they have always done, to those who would refuse them.'**

'Why have you come ?' asked Abaddon, before Khayon could say or do anything. He didn't appear to feel any hesitation when facing the Bound Angel. 'We are here on behalf of the Illuminated Empire. Do you turn on us in our moment of triumph ? Has Lorgar broken his word _again_?'

It took a strong man to speak to a creature such as Argel Tal with contempt, but Abaddon managed it with ease. His voice was loud, carried over by the winds from the burning city and to the massed ranks of crimson warriors waiting behind the Bound Angel. They bristled at the mention of their Legion's shame – of how Lorgar had turned against Horus at the end of the rebellion, seeking to claim the Warmaster's place as the Chosen of Chaos, and failed miserably, forced into exile by the wrath of Horus. The only reason the Word Bearers hadn't been hunted in the Eye as the Sons of Horus had been after that was that many had still fought in the Siege – the five thousand Unspoken of the unfaithful son, and other Chapters who had been drawn to Terra by the call of the greatest battle of all, not knowing of their Primarch's treachery.

' **Aurelian remains within his sanctum,'** answered the Daemon Prince, **'contemplating the Primordial Truth. And the situation is very different from what it was at Ullanor. I am here, as always, because the Gods will it. The chains Ahriman loosened are taught again, now that your brother has left the mortal coil behind and taken Magnus' place in the Court of Change.'**

Khayon had been about to shout some more questions about the _Tlaloc_ 's fate, but that gave him pause. He swayed on his feet, half from exhaustion and half because of the shock. Abaddon glanced at him, and he could feel the gaze of the others.

'Then Ahzek is lost,' he whispered. They had known it was a risk; they had discussed it, even planned for it … but it was one thing to consider the possibility of one's comrade and brother being thrown into Hell, however exalted his rank there, and hearing it had actually happened. Then the meaning of the rest of Argel Tal's words hit him.

' **He is. His ascension echoed across the Pantheon. I sensed it on Sicarius, where I was rebuilding the Legion into something more suited for the new order.'**

'What new order are you talking about ?' asked Lucius. The Eternal was eyeing both the Daemon Prince and Khârn with inhuman hunger in his eyes, already considering which one would provide the greater test of his skills. Khayon didn't know if the swordsman truly believed he stood a chance against the Bound Angel – it wouldn't surprise him. Lucius was nothing if not confident.

' **The Gods have made their choice, champion of Slaanesh,'** said Argel Tal, and there was the weight of destiny in his words. **'The Illuminated Empire has been chosen : it shall be their instrument, the weapon with which they shall lay claim to all the galaxy.'**

'Then _why_ are you here ?' said Khayon. _The Gods will it,_ Argel Tal had said, but it didn't make any sense. The Necromancer was well versed in the madness of daemons, and it simply made no sense for the entities that ruled over them to give such a command to their immortal puppet. 'Why are you attacking us ? I am Iskandar Khayon !' He was shouting now, the winds of the Aether gathering around him in response to his rising temper. 'Exalted Sorcerer of the Thousand Sons, Necromancer of the Fifteenth Legion ! I took part in the casting of the Rubric, and fought off the assault of Mortarion onto the Illuminated Empire ! By my hand, the Thousand Sons have become immortal ! T _he Sons of Horus have just helped the Empire destroy one of its last enemies, in exchange for acceptance within our ranks ! If you serve the Gods and they have marked the Empire as you claim, then why do you attack us ?!'_

' **A prophecy has been given, Necromancer. You, and you alone, hold in your hands the potential to stop the rise of the Illuminated Empire, to prevent the ultimate victory of the Primordial Annihilator. And that is why you must die. Your life ends on this world, Necromancer : it is ordained, by the will of the Gods. Iskandar Khayon will die on Drol Kheir, and the Illuminated Empire shall conquer all and usher in the new Age of Chaos.'**

Everything seemed to _stop._ Everyone, Word Bearer, World Eater, Son of Horus, Astartes or human, daemon or mortal – everyone was looking at Khayon. There had always been a mix of dread and respect in the eyes of the Sons of Horus, but now the knowledge that they may very well be about to face their doom because of a prophecy about _him_ added hate into the mix as well. But Khayon didn't care. He was too busy containing his fury. He had never trusted prophecy, for it was an unreliable art that depended entirely too much on hindsight. For it to be the reason for all of this seemed just a final insult from whatever power dictated his fate – and he thought he knew its name.

'So,' said the Necromancer, tightening his grip around Itzica's pommel. 'The God of Change has betrayed us at last. I was wondering when that would happen … though I did not see him using the Twelfth as his puppets coming. Why are _you_ here, Captain Khârn ?'

'I came to kill Erebus,' said the champion of the Blood God, his voice entirely calm. 'But since you killed him first, I will have to take another skull for Khorne. Yours will do nicely, sorcerer.'

Khayon stared at Khârn for a few seconds, before understanding that there was nothing he could say that would sway the Betrayer. The tale of the bond he and Argel Tal had shared was widely known – the stories of how they had fought in the gladiatorial pits of the World Eaters were spread across the Legions, as was the terrible revenge Khârn had sought on Erebus after the apparent death of the Crimson Lord on Nuceria. Part of the Necromancer wondered how their reunion had gone – both of them had changed so much since they had last met, one reborn as a daemon enslaved to the whims of the Ruinous Powers, the other raised to become the greatest champion of the Lord of Skulls and destroyer of his own Legion.

'Do you think you can get away with this ? Even if you can kill us all – and that is far from guaranteed, I promise you that – do you really think Magnus won't know ?'

' **The Crimson King and the Lord of Iron will be pragmatic. They will forgive your deaths when they learn of the prophecy. Yours is a necessary sacrifice for the ascendancy of the Illuminated Empire. As for the Sixteenth Legion … They have already failed in the eyes of the Gods, and the rise of the Illuminated Empire renders their own destiny redundant. Their blood will seal the alliance of Chaos behind the Empire's banner, and sever all lingering threads. It gives me no joy to do this … which of course is why the Gods demand it of me. I wanted you to know why you have to die, out of the debt I owe your brother. Now … it is time. Do you have any last words you wish to be carried to your Legion ?'**

'That prophecy,' said Khayon, his voice thick with bitterness, 'about me being the only one capable of stopping the Illuminated Empire. From what foul pit of the Warp did it come from ?'

The Daemon Prince paused, as if considering whether to answer, before replying :

' **It was the daemon known as Kairos, the Fateweaver, whose two heads see all the past and future. Both heads spoke the prophecy together, as Ahriman was cast through the Cursus of Alganar and was forced to assume the mantle his destiny demanded.'**

Something snapped within Khayon. Again, the manipulations of Chaos had ensnared him. Again, he had lost that which he held dear because of the whims of the Dark Gods. A wave of fury broke through his exhaustion. He didn't care about the damage he was doing to himself, didn't care about the consequences of his actions, didn't care how bright his soul would shine in the eyes of the Empyrean's predators, how vulnerable he would be. The only other time he had been that furious, he had obliterated a Space Wolf champion down to the atomic level, despite the runic charms festooning the savage's armor. Back then, he had been tired too, drained of his strength by his desperate battles to get to his parents' home only to find it destroyed.

 _I am not your slave,_ he thought to the trickster god that had manipulated his Legion for so long. _I never have been. And I will never be._

'LILITH !' he shouted, putting all of his will into the following command. 'KILL THEM !'

 _As you wish_ , she replied, and struck with the full power of a daemon older than the Dark Gods themselves. Dozens of Chaos Marines were simply annihilated, and the ground tore apart, great chasms forming and swallowing more Legionaries. Sorcerous lightning fell from the skies, and Drol Kheir screamed as Lilith unleashed her full, terrible power.

The two armies charged, and Argel Tal flew straight for Lilith, his mighty wings beating and lifting him up in complete defiance of the laws of gravity. They clashed in the air, the Crimson Lord an image out of the ancient Cathari Hell merged with the aspect of a Space Marine, Lilith a blood-goddess of old, primeval and rebellious. Elsewhere, Lucius the Eternal and Khârn the Betrayer were already duelling, the skill and elegance of the son of Fulgrim matched against Khârn's ferocity and brute strength. Abaddon and his Justaerin were right in the middle of the charge, tearing through Word Bearers warriors and Secondborn, the First Captain's power seeming barely lessened by his missing arm. The Talon gleamed in the fires of battle like never before, cutting through ceramite and daemon-infused flesh like paper.

Khayon would have liked to watch these battles, for he could sense the weight of history and legend around them, but he had his own concerns. The infernalist that had stood at Argel Tal's side was approaching him, the trinkets hanging from his armor glowing with eldritch power as he called upon them. Warriors from both sides were staying away from them – tales of the Necromancer's power were widespread in the Eye of Terror, and not even the fanatic sons of Lorgar wanted to risk going up against he who had torn life from death, defying Mortarion's own power in the process.

'And who are you to challenge me ?' he called out, forcing a confidence in his voice he did not feel.

'I am Saqqara Ur-Damak Thresh,' replied the Word Bearers. 'Faithful son of Lorgar, servant of the Crimson Lord, He Who Speaks For Aurelian. I am a Diabolist of the Seventh Choir, Lord Necromancer, and it has been decreed that I be the one who face you here today.'

'Decided by whom ?' asked Iskandar, his voice still casual even as his mind raced through the Enumerations, trying to gather as much power as he could in his current state.

'It was decided by the only ones whose decisions truly matter, where all the important decisions are made. By the Gods of Blood, Excess, Pestilence and Change, in their courts within the Empyrean.'

'You are your Legion truly are nothing more than slaves,' said Iskandar wistfully. 'And the worst part is, you have _accepted_ it, and you think it glorious.'

'Your heresy is just another reason why you have to die, son of Magnus. _Ak'tara Et Virel !'_

At the Diabolist's words, several of his charms burst apart, the daemons bound within them released. From the shadows and the deep angles of reality, things spawned by the nightmares of species that had died long before Mankind was born emerged. It burned Khayon's eye to look upon them, and would have broken the mind of an unaugmented human. Saqqara spoke more words of dark power, and the creatures he had summoned rushed toward the Necromancer.

If Iskandar had been at his full strength, the battle would have been over in a matter of seconds. He would have torn the Word Bearer apart, ripped his soul from his body and thrown it to the daemons circling the Diabolist. But he was far, far from peak strength. The ritual to destroy the infernal space forts, the breaking of the palace's gates, his confrontation with Erebus, his concern over the fate of his sister, mentor and brothers, had drained him almost completely. It was all he could do to maintain his mental defenses against the whispers of Drol Kheir itself. He was surprised Lilith hadn't already taken advantage of his weakness to try and slip from her bounds.

But even in his diminished state, he was still Iskandar Khayon. He was a Lord of the Legions, and he was damned if he was going to die quietly. And so he drew _Itzica_ and charged right into the abominations, the blade flaring with his remaining psychic power. The sword had been baptised in the blood of the Angel of Despair, and had ended the life of Erebus. The daemons flinched from its light, and Khayon wielded it with all the skill he possessed, severing threads of Warp energy only perceptible to his second sight, causing their incarnated forms to collapse.

'Come on !' he laughed as he cut something that looked like teeth and nails bound together by terror apart with another blow of his silver sword. 'Is that the best you can do ? I just killed Erebus ! I _unmade_ Zarakynel and mocked Mortarion right at his corpse-like face ! You think you can defeat me, just because I am tired from fighting your betters ? You poor, misguided fool … I have bound Neverborn more powerful than you can possibly conceive ! These _pets_ will _never_ kill me !'

'Then I shall do it myself,' said Saqqara, drawing his own weapons and charging at Khayon.

The Diabolist was holding a pair of ancient blades – in human hands, they would have been short swords, but an Astartes' grip made them look like daggers. Nevertheless, Khayon could feel the power contained within them. They were of very different design, forged by two different civilizations that had both succumbed to the lure of Chaos, but similar enough in their power. These were eaters of souls, made to devour the very essence of their wielder's foes – and his own, if he wasn't cautious enough. Clearly someone in the Seventeenth Legion had done some research.

The two Astartes clashed, Khayon's longer blade allowing him to turn aside the Diabolist's blow for several exchanges. In the end, though, he was too tired to continue for long, and did what he should have done from the beginning – he cheated. At his silent command, Gyre leapt out of his shadow, her jaws tightening around Saqqara's neck before the Word Bearer had time to react. His transhuman blood flowed into her maw, but it took a lot to kill a Space Marine. As his life drained from him, he struggled, trying to tear the infernal beast off him, but all it did was cause her to bite deeper. Eventually, the son of Lorgar raised his two blades and stabbed them deep into the flank of the false wolf. Immediately, Gyre released him, falling to the ground alongside her prey, her body already dissipating as she howled in agony, her essence draining into the swords.

'Gyre !' Khayon screamed, rushing to his fallen familiar. Halfway to the stricken wolf, he stumbled, as the ground under his feet suddenly tore apart into yet another chasm. He lost his footing, and as he reached out with his power to pull himself up, he found that the energies he had spent his entire life manipulating were suddenly out of his reach. Something was blocking his access to the Warp.

 _You cannot run from your destiny forever,_ whispered Lilith's voice in his ear. _I told you the truth would break your heart – now it is time for you to learn it. No matter the price, it must be done._

Khayon screamed wordlessly, grapping at the stone around him with his gauntleted hands, trying to find a hold, but the ground broke apart under his grip, while the chasm under him continued to grow wider. He could sense what laid at the bottom of the pit, that same presence he had felt since he had arrived to Drol Kheir finally making itself known without being shrouded by all the terrible things the Slaaneshi Host had done on this world. It was old, powerful, and it waited for him. He remembered the words of Lilith before the battle had begun in the system, and knew that this was the Maze of Drol Kheir. An Eldar place of contemplation and learning, remade by the Empyrean into something far more dangerous. She had told him he would end up in there, and now she had betrayed him to ensure it happened – for who else could block out his powers ?

And so Iskandar Khayon fell into the abyss, while above him his allies warred against the Slaves of Darkness. The last he saw before the earth closed above him was the image of Abaddon charging the towering figure of Argel Tal, a Chthonian battle-cry on his lips and the Talon of Horus raised.

* * *

AN : For some reason, that chapter seemed to write itself. I hope you enjoyed reading it. There is still a lot more of this story to tell - I think I may experience with first-person narration for the next chapter. Seeing the events of the Maze from Khayon's own perspective would probably be more interesting. What do you think ?

As usual, please tell me what you thought of this story, and what you would like to see in it in the future. I may have a destination/ending in mind, but there is plenty of stuff left to fill in.

Zahariel out.


	60. In the Maze

When my awareness returned, I found myself walking on a path of white stone, flanked on both sides by impossibly high black walls. There was no source of light, yet I could see my surroundings clearly. My wounds and fatigue were gone, my armor was pristine, and both Itzica and my deck of tarot cards hung from my waist, along with all my other tools of war. Yet I couldn't sense Gyre, nor any of the Sons of Horus or even the baleful aura of Argel Tal, and any attempt to look upon my environment with my second sight felt like staring into the heart of a black hole. As for the vox … I turned it on for a few seconds, and shut it down – there wasn't even any static on any frequency.

I could, however, sense something through the link that still bound me to Lilith. I began walking in that direction, determined to have some reckoning with that conniving bitch. I did not know how I would do that without my powers, having just witnessed the awesome might she wielded, but I was determined not to let that stop me. My anger at the gods was still boiling my blood.

The Ruinous Powers had played us for fools, seeking to kill me and the Sons of Horus, just as Ahriman was also lost to us. I could see clearly through their so-called prophecy. It was all a scheme, an excuse to remove those who would oppose their corruption of the Illuminated Empire for their own sinister purposes. I did not know what part Lilith had played in that conspiracy, but I would find out before I destroyed her. I would learn from her whatever plans the Dark Gods had for the Illuminated Empire, and I would do whatever it took to bring them all to naught.

I knew where I was : in the Maze, that underground structure that pre-dated the formation of the Eye and that even the Emperor's Children of the Slaaneshi Host had stayed clear of. Whether any of what I saw was real was another question entirely, one I couldn't answer with my sorcerous talents suppressed by whatever power animated this place. I tried to remember what Lilith had told me of the Maze – though I didn't doubt she had phrased her words very carefully. According to her, this had been a place of meditation for the wise ones of the Eldar Empire, before its Fall and the rise of Slaanesh from the devastation. But I had studied the lore of the Eldar, and I knew that, whatever "wisdom" dwelt here, it wouldn't be what humans would consider as such.

I followed the distant beacon of Lilith's presence as the path before me branched, again and again. Soon the walls around me changed, becoming panels of crystals. And through those panels I was shown visions, images that appeared all too real. I could hear and smell what was happening on the other side, feel the heat and the caress of the winds. I saw what would happen, now that Ahriman was gone, now that the Cursus of Alganar was on its way to Sortiarus, now that the Dark Gods had thrown their support behind the Illuminated Empire.

It was glorious … and it was a nightmare.

I saw Janus, Grand Master of the Grey Knights and vessel of Magnus' nobility, brought in chains before the Crimson King, who drained him of power and obliterated the remaining husk. I saw the Cursus of Alganar bound to the service of the Illuminated Empire with sorcery and dark technology, used as a weapon with which the Empire conquered all the realms of the Eye of Terror.

I saw the Bearers of the Word journey to Sortiarus and make great offerings of power and weapons to seal their alliance with the Illuminated Empire. I saw great temples to the Changing God raised upon the Planet of the Sorcerers, dwarfing all structures save for the Tower of the Cyclops. I saw those who refused to embrace the Gods crushed, the Eighth and Twentieth Legions hunted down until the only survivors were those who broke and joined the Illuminated Empire. I saw the Rings of Artek-Ker unleash their legions, a tide of nightmares of flesh and metal conjoined, powered by the stolen energies of what laid at the center of the concentric rings of their home system.

I saw the Crimson King rule over a conclave of his immortal brethren with Perturabo at his side – even dour Mortarion, finally brought to heel by the inescapable command of his god. Even Fulgrim, dragged from his pit and enslaved with chains forged of his daemonic true name. With the strength he had reclaimed from Janus, the Cyclops was greater than any of his brethren – greater even than Horus Lupercal had been at the height of his power.

I saw Maeleum broken, invaded by a horde of mutants bearing the emblems of the Illuminated Empire, and led by Fabius Bile. I saw the last survivors of the Sixteenth Legion slain, their bodies devoured by hungry abominations. I saw the Manflayer take the body of the Warmaster away to his private laboratories, hidden from the eyes of all save the Cyclops, who saw it all and did nothing to stop the desecration of his brother's corpse.

I saw a war greater even than the rebellion of Horus Lupercal, as the hosts of the Illuminated Empire poured out of the Eye of Terror. I saw Cadia, remade into a fortress by the Imperium since the last Black Crusade, shattered by a million guns. I saw this great army advance across the stars, and nothing in the Imperium's arsenal could stop it, or even slow it down.

I saw Magnus, great and terrible in his restored glory, stand atop a mount of hundreds of bodies in silver armor, injured but triumphant, laughing cruelly as he extinguished the light of their souls. I saw the Knights of Titan bring forth a box from the deepest parts of their vaults in their desperation, only to be annihilated before they could open it, the box sealed back beneath the moon's surface.

I walked on Terra again as it burned, its heavens filled with sorcerous lights. I smelled the smoke of the Imperial Palace, and saw Angron, drenched in the blood of the Custodes, rip the withered skull of the Emperor from His body. I sensed the Astronomican go dark, and the Neverborn devouring the entire Sol system, a trillion souls snuffed out at once, their cries sending lines of fracture across all of reality.

I witnessed Lorgar shattering the gates of the Fortress of Hera on Macragge, and heard the screams of Guilliman's soul as the Aurelian tore it from his frozen corpse. I saw that hell-world, Fenris, break apart in the void, its wild elemental forces driven to destruction by the wrath of Magnus. Contrary to what I might have expected, the sight of such desolation visited upon the home of those who had murdered my homeworld brought me no joy – it only made me feel very, very cold.

I saw undying Vulkan imprisoned at the heart of a Chaos star, his screams of ever-lasting torment fuelling an incomprehensibly vast Warp engine. I saw billions, trillions die in terror and pain, their souls feeding the Dark Gods or sustaining the might of the Illuminated Empire. I saw Slaanesh claim Commoragh, and teach the Dark Eldars the true meaning of pain. I saw Craftworld after Craftworld burn, and the Orks struck with a terrible genetic curse, the fruit of Bile and Kor Phaeron working together with the Exalted Sorcerers, that drove the whole species to extinction.

I saw the children of Al'Kyreh spread across the stars, mingling their blood with that of Humanity. I saw psykers rule as demented monarchs and every temple of the Ecclesiarchy razed, the ghosts of priests and cardinals eternally bound to the ruins. I saw Mankind change, generation after generation, under the cold guidance of the Exalted Sorcerers of Tzeentch. I saw floating towers where millions prayed to the Changing God as they contemplated the mysteries of the Warp. I saw the great intrigues that wracked the Illuminated Empire – the jockeying for power and influence among the lesser orders, tainted by the desperate need to secure one's worth in the masters' eyes.

I saw silver towers in the skies of a thousand worlds, bringing madness and mutation with them. I saw my brothers rule as cold and distant overlords, uncaring for the suffering of those under them as they were consumed by their private obsessions, pursuing their own interests alone.

I saw entire defiant worlds, and others who were not defiant at all, burned by the Word Bearers in monstrous acts of sacrifice. I saw entire species purged in genocide of unspeakable cruelty, the only survivors those kept as pets by Chaos Lords, or spared because they had turned on their kin and proven their worth to the Dark Gods.

And finally, after hundreds or thousands of years, I saw the End of Time. Reality itself, undone, becoming no more than a consensual illusion shared by Chaos-warped minds. The souls of Humanity, and of all other species, were the playthings of the Ruinous Powers, forever and ever, never to die, never to end. I heard them scream, and it was a sound louder even than the laughter of the victorious Chaos Gods, one that shook even my cold soul to its core.

I knew then and there that my and Ahriman's plan, our hope of keeping the dream of the Fifteenth Legion alive, had failed. More than that, I knew it had never been anything more than a foolish delusion, which we had been allowed to keep as long as it proved useful. With that realization came a crushing despair, and I fell to my knees before the most terrifying image of all.

The vision showed the six Daemon Primarchs and their immortal Princes holding court among the Damned. They were swollen with dark power, each taller than an Imperator Titan and sitting on a throne fashioned from shrieking spirits. I recognized some of the princelings in attendance, changed as they might be. There was Khârn, his armor and weapons dripping with fresh blood, his mouth opened, revealing a maw in which burned the fires of Khorne's own pits. There was Lucius, some distance from Fulgrim's own throne, smiling too widely, revealing filed teeth inscribed with the names of the worlds he had devoured. The Eternal's body was a mass of swirling faces, hundreds, thousands of them – the souls of all those who had killed him, servants of the Imperium and of the Ruinous Powers alike. Kor Phaeron was there too, a horned fiend straight out of the ancient Hells, and Bile as well, standing apart from the others, surrounded by his own court of twisted monsters.

Members of my Legion were present in numbers, flying around Magnus' towering form like dreadful angels. Ignis, a construct of gears and arcane power that existed in seven dimensions at once. Akhor'menet, still wearing the same armor, but with unholy light pouring from every joint and from his eye-lenses. Ctesias was a hollowed figure of chains and strings, each plunging away into the infinite, bound to a daemon enslaved to his will. And whatever Amon looked like made me turn away in horror the memory of it already scoured from my mind.

There were some I recognized and some I did not, some showing signs of having once been humans or Astartes, others entirely alien in shape. There was a bat-like thing with a skull for a face marked with a blazing Nostraman rune for "vengeance" and holding a golden sword. There was Typhus, his body entirely composed of an enormous swarm of plague-carrying flies, and Argel Tal, and the Warsmith, and countless others. So many others – hundreds, thousands of them, yet only the tiniest fraction of the souls the Dark Gods had claimed when the galaxy fell to Chaos. I could even see some still bearing the colors of loyal Legions – defenders of the Imperium who had changed sides as the galaxy burned in the Illuminated Empire's flames.

I could not hear them, but I knew that their words were placed in their minds by the gods, like children play-acting with their toys. And I also knew that, having brought the entire galaxy under the sway of Chaos, they were now turning their gaze elsewhere, seeking other realms of existence to drown in madness and ruin. In time, they would find them, and bring damnation to all that was.

I was still there, kneeling and weeping under my helmet, when the monsters found me. They came for me in the semblance of Fenrisian wolves, pulling their aspect directly from my old nightmares. One of them hit me from the side, throwing me to the ground before I even realized I was under attack. I saw the beast on my chest, jaws wide open and eyes glowing with eldritch light, then it went straight for my throat. I instinctively reached for my powers, but was again denied.

Fortunately, my training was ingrained deep, and long-drilled reflexes kicked in. I couldn't use Itzica in such close quarters, but I had other, less frequently used weapons. In a fraction of a second I drew the ritual dagger Ashur-Kai had given me at the end of my apprenticeship, my armored fingers closing around the bone hilt, and rammed the weapon into the beast's skull, right behind its eyes. It stopped dead, its teeth mere millimeters from my gorget.

With a grunt, I pushed its corpse off me, the furry body already dissolving into smoke and ectoplasm. I rolled to my feet, dodging another leaping beast, and drew my sidearm. I had almost never used the ancient, three-barrelled laspistol since the Rubric's success, but my skill with it was undiminished. I opened fire, bursting the head of the wolf-thing, then had to defend myself against another's onslaught. I put my dagger back and drew my silver sword, and even though I couldn't channel my power through it, the beats flinched at the sight and withdrew.

They were wary of me now that I had dispatched two of their kind, but I could sense their bloodlust and cruelty. I smiled under my helmet, knowing it wasn't a nice expression at all. After what I had just seen, I was in the mood to butcher a lot of daemons, with my bare hands if necessary. I think I screamed as I fought – but I do not remember what, if anything.

I fought with blade and pistol, and they struck with teeth and claws. They didn't fight as true wolves did, or even as the wolves of my nightmares did. They lacked the coordination of packs, each driven by its own hunger and hate. I moved fast, not focusing on one in particular, never staying in one spot long enough for them to leap at me again.

Even so, by the time I plunged Itzica into the breast of the last of them, my armor was no longer pristine, and I had taken several wounds, all of which had thankfully stopped bleeding. I was breathing heavily, my hearts thundering in my chest. I rose slowly, and found that, at some point during the battle, my surroundings had changed. Gone was the nightmarish vision of Chaos triumphant : I was back on the white path, with the black walls around me and only one way to go.

I followed the path, keeping my hands near my weapons, until the space in front of me finally opened, revealing a cavern of staggering proportions. The walls seemed to be kilometers apart and were no longer black : instead, they were immense constructions of translucid crystal, through which I could catch glimpse of incomprehensible vistas and immense creatures. At the center of the room, three figures waited for me, sat upon thrones of grey stone like some ancient pantheon ready to judge my soul. I slowly made my way to them, and my teeth gnashed together as I recognized two of them. I nearly attacked, but my curiosity about the third figure held me back.

On the left sat Lilith, impassive as ever, and looking none the worse for wear despite having fought the Bound Angel. On the right was a two-headed Lord of Change, cradling a long staff, looking at me with beady black eyes, somehow appearing to smile with its avian beaks. _Kairos Fateweaver_. The daemon that had told the prophecy that had brought the Word Bearers and the World Eaters to Drol Kheir to kill me and my allies, in order to prevent me from stopping the Illuminated Empire. The one in the center was an old man, skeletally thin and incredibly tall – nearly twice my own height, even hunched over as he was. He wore a tattered cloak of red fabric that he hugged around his wasted frame, shivering as if suffering from some terrible cold. A mane of white hair hung from his skull, framing his head. His face was ravaged by time, but I could see there was only a scar where one of his eyes had once been. My breath caught as I recognized him.

'Welcome,' said the old man, visibly struggling to raise his head. 'Welcome, my son.'

* * *

AN : alternate timeline within an alternate timeline ! Wooohooo !

I had a lot of positive returns for the last chapter, and I hope that this one doesn't disappoint. Yes, I know, it's a bummer that the dream of the Thousand Sons cannot be realized, but let's be honest - the sons of Magnus are _evil._ There might be justifications for that, but at the end of the day, they are still Tzeentch's servants. And you _cannot_ create a utopia while enslaved to Chaos. It will not allow it.

This chapter and the next one were originally supposed to be one, but I found it more dramatic to split them up. And it will also give me more time to develop what happens next - I have the gist of it, but I need to flesh it out, because, as you probably had guessed, it's going to be quite an important one.

Hadn't planned on Kairos being here at first ... but, once again, my characters surprised me. And it really made sense for that daemon to be here, as you will see in the next chapter.

Right now, I have the next chapter of Warband of the Forsaken Sons, a short story for Warhammer 40K, and The Hunt for Cypher going on. I need to focus on one of them. I think next will be the short story - it shouldn't take as long as either of the others. _Then_ Warband of the Forsaken Sons. The Hunt for Cypher will require me to focus on it solely for a while.

As usual, please tell me what you thought of this chapter and what you think will happen next.

Zahariel out.


	61. Truth From the Trinity

I did not kneel.

Perhaps I should have – perhaps it would have been the right thing to do. But I remained standing, staring at the tired, skeleton-thin old man as he struggled to raise his head and look at me. He had the face of Magnus – he had his gaze – and yet, I did not kneel. Was it shock at seeing him so diminished that kept me from feeling the powerful, gene-bred compulsion that has afflicted every Space Marine to ever face his Primarch ? Was it the fact that I had defied Magnus once before, when I had joined Ahriman's cabal, and had lost some of my natural respect for him ? Was it what I had seen in the Maze, all the horrors that I now knew my Primarch would be responsible for ?

Whatever the reason, I did not kneel. I walked to him, my boots cracking the crystal floor with every step, sending fractals of impossible complexity through the material. I knew Kairos and Lilith were looking at me, but I barely noticed their presence. My mind was boiling with questions.

'Who,' I asked, stopping less than a meter from the cyclopean figure, 'are you ?'

'I am Magnus,' he replied with a tired smile. He knew that I knew that, and he knew it wasn't what I had really asked. To his credit, he did not wait for me to clarify my query before continuing : 'I am one of your Primarch's shards, from when his soul was shattered upon the Wolf King's knee. How very different things would be, if Russ had done his job properly … But he was always the most sentimental of us all, despite his best efforts to play the part of the crass barbarian warlord.'

'Ahriman found the shards of the Crimson King,' I said, still struck by what I was seeing. 'Only that which the Emperor bound into Janus escaped his quest. Magnus himself told us so.'

He shook his head. There was something in the gesture that spoke of a weariness beyond words.

'No, Iskandar. Ahzek found most of the shards of Magnus, but not all. Three still remain apart from the Daemon Primarch who stands atop the Tower of the Cyclops on Sortiarus. Janus, who embodies his loyalty to the Emperor and his desire to atone for his crimes, is but the mightiest of these. Whether the Crimson King knew this when he told you otherwise … I cannot say.'

'And what are _you_ , then ?' I demanded, but I feared that I already knew.

'I am the Father,' he said, and the words were like a cold blade in my guts. 'I am the part of Magnus who would put his sons above all else, even his own ambitions. When we were broken on Prospero, I fled from the rest of my former self, for I saw what he would become. I saw all the terrible power he would wield as the greatest champion of Tzeentch, and knew that he must be opposed.'

'You abandoned us,' I whispered, my hands twitching toward my weapons for a second.

'The Crimson King still cares for you all,' he continued, as if he hadn't heard me – and perhaps he hadn't, though I very much doubted it. 'But his dreams are more important to him now … and his dreams are no longer his own, for his very soul belongs to the Changing God.'

I thought back on all that had happened since the fall of Prospero. I hadn't been at my Legion's side during its first months in exile within the Eye of Terror – I had been slowly dying on Prospero first, then fighting alongside the World Eaters after they picked me up. It hadn't been until I had reached Terra aboard the _Tlaloc_ that I had been reunited with the bulk of the Thousand Sons. And it was true that Magnus had changed by then, in more ways than the mere shedding of his mortal flesh. The Crimson King had been willing to burn Terra to ash to reclaim what Malcador and the Emperor had stolen from him. At the time, I hadn't cared – I had been too lost in my own lust for revenge for my homeworld's destruction, wrongly believing it had been the Master of Mankind who had ordered it. Yet looking back at it now … and considering that Ahriman, me and the others had had to work behind Magnus' back to perform the Rubric and save the Legion from the flesh-change … it all made sense. The Magnus I remembered from the Great Crusade wouldn't have let _anything_ stand in the way of saving his sons from such a horrible fate.

'Very well,' I said. 'I will accept that you are a shard of my Primarch. What then is the meaning of this ?' I asked, gesturing toward Lilith and Kairos, still sitting on their thrones, watching us intently.

'After the fall of Prospero,' began the Father, taking deep, pained breaths between each sentence, 'I took refuge here, in the Crystal Labyrinth, where even Amon's grand ritual could not find me. Still I heard the echoes of that great spell, and knew its purpose. I saw the scheme of Tzeentch : how the Architect of Fate intended for Horus to fail, but in doing so weaken the Imperium enough that Tzeentch's own pawns would be able to conquer the galaxy in his name. And I saw too how he intended for it to happen – how he would strengthen his pawns above all others.'

'The Rubric.' That wasn't a question. The Father nodded.

'Indeed. With the Rubric, the Thousand Sons would be reborn, nigh unstoppable. They who had been cast down the lowest of all Traitor Legions would rise again, and unite the Eye of Terror before drowning the galaxy in madness. I could not let that happen – could not let my sons become the very monsters they had once sworn to fight to the death. And so, I sought allies. I was not the only one who had reasons to oppose Tzeentch's design. Another was Kairos here.'

On its throne, the two-headed Lord of Change chuckled to itself. I knew Kairos Fateweaver's name, of course – it was one of the most powerful and influential daemons of the Court of Change. Its legend was widely spread across the Eye of Terror. According to it, Kairos had once been the mightiest of Tzeentch's Lords of Change, before the Dark God had thrown it into the Well of Infinity, a source of omniscient knowledge and power that even the Changing God could not control. Kairos had survived the experience, but had been broken by it, returning with two heads, one seeing the past, one the future, both blind to the present. A further curse had been applied by Tzeentch on his broken servant, forcing Kairos' two heads to always speak one truth and one lie.

It was all an allegory, of course, a way for human minds to comprehend a principle of Chaos that even the greatest scholars of Sortiarus could not contemplate for long without going temporarily insane and need to be mind-wiped. Kairos was an agent of change, an unpredictable variable introduced into the turning of Fate's wheels, one that not even Tzeentch could fully control. Or so a thousand tales claimed, while another thousand legends exalted the Fateweaver as the greatest and most faithful servant of the God of Magic. What was certain was that, long before the Heresy, it had been Kairos who had convinced Lorgar Aurelian to dedicate himself to overthrowing the Emperor.

When Lorgar had led his Legion to Cadia and the Eye of Terror in search of answers after his humiliation at Monarchia, he had faced Kairos in the Eye – the place where gods and mortals met – and been told of the choice that he faced. That the Golden Son had believed the words of one such as Kairos only went to show that Lorgar, for all his pretence of humility, was still prideful enough to believe a well-crafted narrative that allowed him to play the part of the messianic saviour instead of the one he had in the Imperium – that of a well-meaning but misguided and weak fool.

'Kairos joined Ahriman on his quest for the soul-shards,' explained the Father, 'guiding him on his journey while secretly working to pervert the Rubric. Your brother's great work was based upon the Book of Magnus, but that grimoire's contents could be altered. Kairos sought to manipulate one of Ahriman's warband into subtly modifying one particular rune, which would have altered the Rubric's outcome dramatically. This would still have saved the Legion from the flesh-change, but it would have prevented its current ascension. However … the plan did not work.'

'My pawn failed,' said one head. 'Ahriman saw through the modification,' said the other.

'With his plan's failure,' continued the Father, 'Kairos joined me here, to help me in my own efforts to prevent the Crimson King from claiming victory for Tzeentch in the Great Game of Chaos. His help was crucial in arranging matters so that there is at least a chance of preventing it.'

'Why ?' I asked the feathered daemon, making no effort to hide the suspicion in my voice. 'Why do you oppose your master ? Are you not a servant of Tzeentch – a piece of him ? Shouldn't this outcome, the victory of Chaos under the aegis of the Changing God, please you ?'

'Because after this victory, Tzeentch will have no more use for me,' answered one head, at the same time the second said : 'because I know what will happen when the Illuminated Empire, having conquered the galaxy, turns its gaze elsewhere, and I am scared of what will look back.'

'And do you not fear what he will do when he discovers your treachery ?'

'I have not betrayed him,' said one head : 'in this, as in all things, I am Tzeentch's most faithful servant.' Then the other said : 'I fear his victory far more than I fear his wrath.'

Of course. I was a fool to have expected anything clearer from such a creature. Still, whether this was simply a manifestation of Chaos' self-destructive tendencies or a result of something else hardly mattered. I had long suspected that the Dark Gods did not _truly_ want to win.

'And what of you ?' I asked, turning my gaze to Lilith. 'You let me bound you on Sortiarus – I can see it clearly now, even though I couldn't before. You helped me fight Eidolon, and then you betrayed me, cutting me from my power and causing me to fall into the Maze. I have heard the name Fulgrim called you by, and I have used it myself. Yet I do not _know_ you. Who are you ?!'

'Throughout human history, I have had many names,' she answered, her voice coldly calm. 'I was once called Morrigan, Mab, Chamunda, and a hundred other names. I was the power of birth and blood, the wisdom and the death that primitive chieftains feared and worshiped at the foot of the first priestesses. When _His_ presence began to shape the beliefs of Humanity without Him even realizing it, I became Lilith. I am the shadow cast by the Anathema's blazing light in the soul of the species He sought to protect. And when the Youngest God was born, he drew me into his kingdom, where I have remained ever since, watching, waiting.'

'Kairos and I made contact with Lilith after the Rubric's successful casting,' explained the Father. 'We sensed that there was another power trying to prevent the victory of Tzeentch, and we sought to join forces – for none of us could hope to stop the God of Change alone. And so we became the Trinity, a dark reflection of an aeon-old concept to oppose the Architect of Fate's great scheme. With the help of Kairos' sight, we crafted a plan of our own – a desperate one, but the only one with even the slightest chance of working. And all of it depended – still does depend – on you, Iskandar.'

'I arranged to be "gifted" to Fulgrim,' said Lilith, 'to help him in his crusade against the Illuminated Empire. I knew he would fail – and I knew his failure would give me the opportunity to bind myself to you. Because while Mankind may have turned against me tens of thousands of years ago, I still care for them, and would not see the nightmare you witnessed in the Maze become reality.'

'You were always destined to become the Necromancer,' said the Father, 'to have power over the life and death of your brothers. With such a trump card, the Thousand Sons would have been unstoppable. But by binding herself to you, Lilith was able to send the knowledge required for that power back to you through time, creating a stable time loop where you gained the ability to raise the dead long before you otherwise would have. After that, all that was left for our plan to be complete was for Kairos to give Tzeentch the prophecy about you being the only one capable of stopping the Illuminated Empire, in order to ensure that you would end up here now.'

'So, what happens now ?' I asked.

'It is taking all of my power to delay the return of your victorious brothers,' said the Father. 'As we speak, Janus is held in chains aboard the _Truthbringer_ , and the moment that vessel reaches Sortiarus, all hope will be lost. As I sit here, my will is abroad the Eye, rousing the storms in the Black Crusade's path and hiding them from the Crimson King. It is why I am so … diminished. Even so, the disturbance I have caused will gain us some time, but not much.'

He coughed, and droplets of blood flew from his mouth, spotting the cloak he wore with darker red. He took several long, gasping breaths, his wasted muscles twisting in pain with each one, before he was able to continue :

'The Necromancer is the only power left that can oppose the Illuminated Empire. Mortarion and Fulgrim have failed; Angron is too mad to care; Perturabo and Lorgar have joined it; and Alpharius … well, suffice to say, the Hydra has fallen far since the days of the rebellion. You are all that is left, Iskandar, and only because we arranged for you to be.'

'I do not believe this,' I protested. 'No single soul is that important.'

'Perhaps,' admitted Lilith. 'We are not omniscient, after all, not even Kairos. It is possible that the Illuminated Empire will fail, even without your intervention – just as it is possible that it will triumph even if you oppose it. The future is not set, and Chaos' nature is ever fractious. Perhaps the lords of the Eye will turn on each other again. Perhaps the Imperium holds some secret weapon, hidden from the Gods themselves, that could turn the tide. Perhaps one of the galaxy's other powers will stop the Illuminated Empire instead. The question is : are you willing to take that risk ?'

I thought back on what the Maze had shown me, and I knew what the answer was. We always have a choice in our actions – but sometimes, circumstances conspire to make that choice no choice at all. I was no longer the devoted soldier of Mankind that I had once been – that man had died when Prospero had burned. Yet some echo of the Space Marine I had been lingered on, and I was still human, for all the changes I had gone through. More than that, I bitterly realized, I was still my Primarch' son, with his pride and conviction. Given the potential consequences of inaction, how could I turn aside, knowing the horrors my own Legion would unleash upon reality ?

Was this what Magnus had felt when he had risked everything to save Horus' soul from Erebus' manipulations on Davin, and then when he had tried to warn the Emperor of his brother's betrayal ?

'What must I do ?'

'You do not have the power to oppose the Illuminated Empire as you currently are. But that can change. The shards are the key. Tzeentch's eye is focused on the Crimson King and the Thousand Sons, and he has forgotten the smaller pieces of his pawn that slipped away.'

'The shards … You said there were _three_ shards of Magnus not returned to the Crimson King,' I said slowly. 'Janus is one. You are another. What of the third one ?'

'The Wrath of Magnus,' gasped the Father. 'The hatred felt by the Primarch of the Thousand Sons as he watched Prospero burn, his people butchered, and his sons defying his command by fighting back. Insane, vicious hate. Of all Magnus' shards, this was the weakest – but it is cunning. It lacks the power to directly oppose the Crimson King – even I am mightier than it. Yet it has found pawns, vessels that it has empowered and used to manipulate events to bring about the Legion's final ruin.'

'Pawns ?' I frowned, remembering the creatures that had attacked me earlier, taking on the shape of the Fenrisian wolves that had accompanied the Vlka Fenryka during the Burning of Prospero.

'They are called the Children of Ahriman,' said Lilith. 'The broken souls and daemons left behind by your brother's shattered fragments, across all of time and space. When Ahriman called upon his full power to face Janus on Tallarn, the Wrath of Magnus brought them to that world, to strike down the Lord of the Rubric at his moment of triumph and force him through the Cursus of Alganar. Now Ahriman is trapped within the Court of Change, imprisoned upon his father's throne, while the Children torment him. He can do nothing but watch as his Legion is fully corrupted by Tzeentch, and becomes the instrument of Chaos to bring about the Imperium's downfall. In this way will the shard achieve its revenge against all who ever wronged it. The entire galaxy will burn, and all souls will suffer as the Children suffered. The Wrath ensured that Ahriman was blind to the unintended consequences of his actions by playing upon his pride and desire to protect the Fifteenth Legion.'

'Another player in the Great Game,' said Kairos. 'Another puppet dancing on barbed strings.'

'The Wrath and the Children are lost now,' sighed the Father. 'But just as three of us gathered to oppose the Illuminated Empire, so must you find three shards of Primarch power. By consuming them, you will add their strength to your own, and become able to stand against the Chaos Legions.'

I stared at the Father, my mind freezing as the meaning of his words dawned on me.

'No,' I whispered, stepping back. 'No, I will not do this. I cannot.'

'You must,' he said gently. 'It is the only way.'

'I will not !' I was shouting now, losing control – always a dangerous thing for a practitioner of the Arts, even more so for an Exalted Sorcerer. The last time that had happened to me, it had taken Ahriman to return me to my senses, and I had reduced the top of his Silver Tower to ruins. I fell to my knees, arcs of sorcerous power leaping from my armor and into the ground. Cracks ran through the crystal surface, and baleful light glowed from them.

'You will,' he said, and there was steel in his voice now. My head snapped back up, and as I stared into his eye, I saw that he wholly believed what he was saying. He could not imagine any other outcome. And perhaps he was right. Perhaps this _was_ the only way to stop the nightmare I had witnessed from coming to pass. And yet …

… to consume a shard of my gene-sire's soul … to destroy the last remnant of his love for his sons, all in order to gain the power needed to betray my Legion … It was too much. I couldn't …

'Your sister lives,' said Lilith. She met my silent gaze before continuing : 'and so does your mentor. Your ship escaped the wrath of the Twelfth and Seventeenth Legions, but it cannot hide forever. What fate do you think awaits them, should they fall in the hands of the Illuminated Empire now ?'

Ashur-Kai. Mekhari, Djedhor. My brothers, who had fought with me on the walls of the Imperial Palace. Who had joined me as I rallied Ahriman's cabal, who had believed in me when I had doubted the First Captain and commanded them to be ready to strike at their own Legion brothers if necessary. And then …

 _Itzara._

The sister I had failed to save when the worms had devoured her brain. The sister I had delivered to the Mechanicum, that she might live, in whatever fashion was still possible. The sister I had sworn I would protect, no matter what it cost me.

I could not fail her again. Lilith was right – the _Tlaloc_ would be hunted. Ashur-Kai was mighty and wise, but not even he could escape the dogs of the Ruinous Powers for long. Eventually, they would catch up, and then death would be the kindest possible outcome. And I …

… I would not let my sister die like this. I would not abandon her.

I stood, and drew my sword. The silver blade gleamed as it reflected the eldritch lights glimmering on the distant walls. I walked toward the Father, who smiled sadly as he nodded in approval. Lilith and Kairos were staring at me, something like awe glimmering in the beady eyes of the Greater Daemon. The titanic shadows in the walls paused, and I felt the weight of their attention.

I think I screamed as I raised my sword in both hands and plunged it into the chest of the Father. The blade pierced through his skin and burst from his back, impaling him on his throne. We locked gazes for a few seconds, then he raised his hands, moving his stick-like arms for the first time. He took hold of my wrists and, with a pained grunt, forced the sword into himself even deeper, until the hilt touched his chest. The back of his throne cracked and shattered, pieces of it raining on the ground. He took a breath, as if trying to say one last thing – and then he died.

His eye closed, he sighed his last breath, and turned into shining dust that ran up the length of my sword and plunged into my chest, fusing with my very soul. Power coursed through me – power greater than anything I had ever known, save for that moment when I had been part of the Rubric's casting. My psychic strength had increased fivefold, and that increase in power was nothing compared to the flow of knowledge that accompanied it.

That a mere shard of Magnus held such might, even after it had expended most of itself to delay the Black Crusade, once more reminded me of the true, awesome power that a Primarch in his full glory could wield. And it reminded me also that the Crimson King's power was far greater than that.

When my vision returned, I found the thrones empty. Lilith and Kairos were gone – or rather, the projections of the entities mortals called "Lilith" and "Kairos" were no longer sustained by the great and terrible powers hiding behind these limiting masks. I could still sense both of them, for they were daemon lords, and there were very few places they could hide from me now.

I knew what I must do. My power had increased greatly, but it wasn't enough for me to do what I had to do in order to prevent the Hell I had seen from coming to pass. I needed _more_ , more power, more strength. To defy the Illuminated Empire, I needed the strength of another soul-shard. Luckily, amidst the knowledge bequeathed to me by the Father's legacy, was the location of one such shard.

And so I went into the Crystal Labyrinth, my mind burning with the power of my father's soul-shard. I went into the infinite corridors of Tzeentch's realm, to find the ghost of Horus Lupercal.

* * *

AN : Happy New Year, everyone !

Gods, I love writing Kairos' dialogue. It's an absolute nightmare, and you can't use him for any exposition, but I remember when I heard him speak in the audiobooks for Age of Sigmar and instantly fell in love with the concept. Every line must have two versions, both of which must be potentially true, and with wildly different implications. I hope I captured that side of the Fateweaver in that chapter.

The inspiration for the next chapter came from a video by 40K Theories, which I really recommend you to check out (the title of the exact video is "The Shattered Soul of Horus Lupercal". Go watch it if you want, but it won't be needed to understand the next chapter). It made me consider some aspects of the lore I never really thought about before, and while my plans for the Roboutian Heresy's future should hopefully prevent me from shamefully ripping these theories off, it wouldn't surprise me if my subconscious slipped in a few inspirations.

The characterization of Iskandar in this chapter is a little different from the one in canon. The greatest difference is obviously his affection for his sister. In canon, Khayon still "loves" Itzara, in as much as a Space Marine and Chaos Sorcerer is able to feel love, but he was still willing to risk her very soul to have her become part of the _Vengeful Spirit._ And the reason for that difference is ... well, this chapter is told from HIS point of view.

His motives for turning his back on his Legion and the Illuminated Empire may not be quite as noble as he pretends, even to himself. He _has_ been betrayed by those he thought were his allies, and has just learned that his Primarch doesn't actually love him or any of his brothers anymore. And the nightmarish vision of last chapter still weights heavily on his mind. In canon, Iskandar joins the Black Legion because he genuinely believes that the Imperium is doomed (which part of him acknowledges is the fault of the Traitor Legions, which is why they must be the ones to fix it). He doesn't want Humanity to be enslaved to the Dark Gods for all eternity - an important part of the Black Legion novels is how the Black Legion exists in _defiance_ of the Ruinous Powers, with Abaddon essentially giving the Four the finger with every breathing moment he refuses to kneel to them.

There will be one, perhaps two chapters written from Khayon's POV, but after that, we will go back to "omniscient third-person narrator".

What else to say ... oh, yes, I will work on Warband of the Forsaken Sons now. Next chapter has already 7k words written down, and is only about half-done. (Though I do believe that it could be split in two parts. What do you guys think ? Would you rather have half the chapter now, half later, or a bigger chapter once it's finished ?).

As always, I look forward to your comments/reviews for this chapter. I will try to answer any questions you might have, if not personally, then in the coming chapters. We have entered the final arc of this fic (the one I teased on spacebattles would be called _"One Last Betrayal")_ but there is still a _lot_ to write. I have the plot down, but there is a lot of room for extension and short stories like the ones I wrote before about the Children of Ahriman.

Zahariel out.


	62. Captives of the Labyrinth

Molech. There was a name that no one who had studied Mankind's ancient legends would _ever_ have thought was a good idea to give to anything, let alone an entire planet. And yet, clearly the first colonists to leave Old Earth had thought it a good name to give to one of the hundreds of thousands of planets they seeded, in the glory days of the Dark Age of Technology. Then again, those were the same people who thought naming a world "Morningstar" was clever. Sometimes I wonder how our ancestors could be so wise and so foolish at the same time – but then I remember my Legion's story, and the fact that my own family name could be traced back to that of the mythical First Murderer.

Since the end of the rebellion, legends about Molech had spread across the Eye of Terror. It was on Molech that Horus had claimed the full power of Chaos' Chosen, they said; on Molech that he had discovered the true nature of the False Emperor; on Molech that he had lost his soul to the Dark Gods and become their puppet. There were countless versions of countless stories, and precious little fact to be found within them. The cults who still worshipped the fallen Warmaster claimed that, when Horus returned from the dead to lead the Children of Chaos to their final victory, his resurrection would occur there. Other oracles claimed that the slaves of the False Emperor had destroyed the world after the failure of the Siege of Terra, or that the Gods had abandoned it forever after their favoured champion's demise.

What was known for certain was this : as the rebellion continued its inexorable advance toward the Throneworld, the Warmaster had gathered the might of his Legion and called his brother Mortarion to his side. Together, they had attacked the well-defended Imperial world of Molech, crushing its defenders. When Horus had departed Molech, he had been endowed with the terrible power he had displayed for the rest of the Heresy – strength enough to bring even other Daemon Primarchs such as Fulgrim and Angron under his control, and break the pride of Lorgar Aurelian. With that power, he had slain Sanguinius, and matched the strength of the False Emperor Himself.

During the journey from Maeleum to Drol Kheir, I had asked Abaddon what he knew of this. The First Captain had taken part in that campaign, reddening his blades with the blood of the Imperial defenders at his Primarch's command. Abaddon told me of what they found on Molech : of the secret temple where the Emperor Himself had entered the Empyrean, and where Horus had followed in his father's footsteps. The Warmaster had returned a mere moment after entering the Warp, seemingly aged centuries, and had told his sons of trials he had faced in the Realms of Chaos to prove his worth to each of the Ruinous Powers. But these had been words spoken in a moment of weakness : Horus had said no more of his time in the Warp afterwards.

However, the Father had known more, and that knowledge was now mine. I knew something neither Horus nor his sons had been aware of : that not all of Horus' soul had returned from the Realms of Chaos with his body. Each of the Four had claimed a piece of Horus' spirit, and bound that shard to the Realm that Chaos God ruled over. There, the soul-shards underwent endless trials, forever striving to prove their worth, unaware that their body was already dead. All for the amusement of the Dark Gods, who had quickly got bored and turned their gaze elsewhere, leaving the fragments of Horus trapped forever.

One such fragment was kept within the Crystal Labyrinth, a plaything of Tzeentch. It was this fragment that I had come for, seeking to add its power to my own. For even though the Warmaster had lacked the natural psychic abilities displayed by some of his brothers, he had still been one of the Emperor's sons, and his soul had burned very bright indeed.

To describe the Crystal Labyrinth is an exercise in madness. Many living souls have found their way to the realm of Tzeentch, and a few even made it out sane enough to leave records of what they witnessed. But while some themes are common across these accounts, no two are ever identical.

The reason for this is evident to any scholar of the Empyrean : the Crystal Labyrinth is a concept, not a physical location, and what a visitor sees is nothing but the image his own mind projects onto something it cannot possibly fathom. I saw a place of endless reflections, all of them different from the rest in subtle and unsettling ways. I saw walls of crystal and corridors bending at impossible angles; I saw distant lights that mocked me and all that I had ever hoped to achieve. I saw souls trapped in endless loops of bent time, forever repeating the same moment, unaware of their predicament. I saw warriors from Legions whose colors I did not recognize, some bearing the emblems of the Ruinous Powers, others the sigil of the aquila, and others still symbols I could not recognize – a circle above an horizontal crescent with a stylized "u" inside, a circle touching the inner side of a larger circle and connected to the other side by a straight line, and many more.

Though I saw these things through the walls, I did not encounter them on the same path I walked. The knowledge I had gained from the Father guided me, along with my own enhanced perceptions of my surroundings. I knew that, in a place such as the Crystal Labyrinth, will was what truly mattered. As long as I kept my objective at the forefront of my mind and shielded my soul from the whispers of this realm, I would eventually find my objective. And so I did, after a period that seemed like an age, yet of which I have little memory.

I found Horus standing in front of a complex apparatus : hundreds of bronze and silver rings floating in the air, orbiting slowly and moving in response to the soul-shard's hand motions. The soul-shard itself looked nothing like the Warmaster I had ever seen, though. This was a version of Horus as he had been on Molech, long after the Triumph on Ullanor, but just before he had been filled with the power of the Pantheon. This was the Horus who had arranged the Atrocity and Massacre of Isstvan, the renegade Warmaster who had plunged the entire Imperium into the throes of civil war. The king of kings who sought to be Emperor.

This was the Horus who had plotted to send the Wolves to Prospero. The man responsible for the horrors that had befallen my people, for the death of my parents, and my Legion's damnation. And yet … it was hard for me to hate him, looking at him now. How long had this shard of the First Primarch been trapped here ? Decades ? Centuries ? Likely much more than that, though time meant even less in the Crystal Labyrinth than elsewhere in the Sea of Souls.

I watched for a moment, fascinated, as the soul-shard continued trying to solve the puzzle of the rings. I was somewhat familiar with this trial : on Prospero, similar devices had been used to train students of the Art into the finest details of telekinetic manipulation. The goal was to align all of the rings, which were interconnected by thin bands of metal to obstruct certain motions.

By itself, it wasn't an especially difficult challenge, made complex only by the need to use nothing but one's psychic powers. But this one was different, its aspect shifting every time Horus turned it over. It took me a while to realize that the object existed in a total of nine dimensions, only three of which were visible at any given time.

After I had understood the nature of the soul-shard's current trial, I walked out of the corridor that had brought me to this chamber of the Labyrinth, the sound of my footsteps on the crystal floor announcing my presence. Yet Horus didn't react, though I knew he must have noticed my arrival.

'Greetings, Lord Lupercal,' I said, bowing. Even though this was but a shard of the First Primarch, and despite what I had come here to do, I still felt the urge to show respect to this wraith, when I hadn't before the Father. I wondered what that meant, if anything.

'Another daemon sent to trick me,' sighed Horus, moving one of the ring currently visible a few degrees before finally turning from his work to face me. He examined me coldly, his eyes missing nothing. 'And who are you supposed to be ? Your armor looks like that of Magnus' sons, but I don't recall any of the Cyclops' warriors wearing the black.' He smiled, and it was a cold thing indeed. 'Or perhaps you claim to be mourning the lost homeworld of the Fifteenth Legion ? Is that it ?'

'I am Iskandar Khayon,' I answered. He cocked his head slightly.

'Iskandar … yes, I remember him. I never met him, but I read about him in his Legion's files. A captain, if I recall correctly. And why are you pretending to be him, daemon ? Also, you got the color of his armor wrong. I have come to expect more from your kind, but then again, you are nothing but inconsistent. Go ahead. Say your piece.'

I looked into his eyes, and saw the fire that burned there. The determination, the confidence, the self-rigtheousness. I saw the cruelty, the arrogance, the thirst for power and glory that had always been there, long before the Dark Gods first whispered in his ears on Davin's moon – all the Four had done was release them. He wore no weapon, but he projected an aura of power and assurance that made it clear that he didn't think he needed one.

This was a version of Horus that thought the rebellion was still raging, who thought he was the whole of the First Primarch. A version of Horus that had faced countless trials before, resisted the traps of countless Tzeentchian daemons. To convince him of the truth, to persuade him of the vast betrayal that had been played upon him, to make him understand what was required to preserve the galaxy from the horrors of Chaos unfettered, would have strained the abilities of a master Orator.

'You are already dead, Horus,' I said.

I have never been a great diplomat.

'When you passed through the portal on Molech,' I continued before he could answer, 'your soul was splintered into several fragments. The biggest of those returned to your body, carrying the blessings of the Pantheon. The rest were spread between the Chaos Gods, to bind you to their service. And after that, when your armies finally reached Terra and laid siege to the Imperial Palace, you faced your father at last … and you died. _You_ are just the fragment of Horus' soul belonging to the God of Change. In the real world, your body has been dust – _less_ than dust – for centuries. I have come to release you of your imprisonment : to grant you oblivion, with your power being added to mine so that I can do what must be done to save Humanity from the Ruinous Powers.'

He smiled, and I could see he hadn't believed a single word I had said. He opened his mouth, probably to speak words of contempt, or perhaps to laugh. I never found out, for I had already abandoned the idea of persuading the soul-shard. Instead, I drew _Itzica_ , my new power coursing through the silver blade, and launched myself at the ghost of a Primarch. He reacted quickly, of course, and moved to avoid my sword and punch my head off my shoulders with his bare hands.

But while such a blow would have undoubtedly killed me before, my mind was now enhanced by the essence of the Father. I did not possess a Primarch's majestic prowess, but I was more than the equal of the shard I now faced. I focused on this new strength, and _Itzica's_ blow suddenly accelerated while I danced out of the way of Horus' fist. The blade buried itself into the side of the Primarch, right where, according to the tales I had exchanged during the final days of the Heresy, the spear of Leman Russ had struck the true Warmaster.

We stood there, frozen, staring at one another, united in the obscene intimity of killer and victim. Horus' face was a mask of incredulity more than pain, as if he couldn't believe what was happening to him. Something akin to pity flickered in my soul, briefly. Then I pushed my sword deeper into his illusory flesh, and screamed as my mind reached out, capturing the shard, draining it of its strength while it was shocked beyond resisting by the mortal wound it had sustained.

He too screamed as I absorbed everything from him, his memories burned away in the inferno of my own soul-fire. As I claimed the last of him and he faded from existence like morning mist, I heard him crying out to his sons on Molech. Power flowed through me once more as I absorbed Horus' soul-shard into myself. This still wasn't enough to face the entire Illuminated Empire, but it was enough for me to take the next step on that road I had been forced to choose. It was time for me to return to Drol Kheir, where, as Lilith had once told me, my destiny awaited.

I gathered my power and prepared to cast the spell that would rip me from the Labyrinth and bring me back to Drol Kheir. It was a very complex one, crafted by the Trinity working together and using the energies unleashed by the battle between Lilith and Argel Tal to find my way back. I summoned the words of power from my memory, holding each syllable in my mind.

But just as I was about to start, the now-abandoned nine-dimensional puzzle shifted. The rings turned, and aligned by themselves, doing in seconds what the soul-shard had tried to do for years. And as soon as the alignment was complete, the rings disappeared, and in their place was …

'Ahzek ?' I breathed.

A hole had appeared where the rings had been, surrounded by diffuse light, and through that hole I could see somewhere else in the Realm of Tzeentch. Something deep within me – perhaps an echo of the Father, or Horus' own spirit, or perhaps a connection forged by the Rubric – told me that this was a window opened onto the Court of Change, when the Lords of Change schemed and plotted against one another while dancing onto the strings of Tzeentch.

The man in the image sat on a throne of crystal, with jagged edges that bit into his exposed flesh, causing red blood to flow on the translucent material. He wore an exquisitely-crafted golden burial mask, and I felt as if I should recognize the face, yet did not. It took me several seconds to understand that this must be Ahriman's own face, and I froze in shock as I realized that I could no longer recall what my brother had looked like before his face had been taken from him. All of my memories of him showed him with the same gaping void instead of a face that he had after facing Fulgrim on Sortiarius. I shuddered despite myself, faced with the extant of the Dark Gods' power.

I looked at the image of my brother again, and saw that he wasn't simply sitting on his throne : he was chained to it, trapped in place by chains of black metal. Shapeless spirits ran across his body, biting into his flesh with cruel fangs, opening wounds through which his blood spilled on a thousand worlds, twisting humans into mutants who desperately sought to please the one they believed was their maker – unaware of the true cause of their transfiguration.

This was the true form of the Broken God. The Neverborn had called Ahriman by that name after he had cast the Rubric, and it seemed that it had referred to more than simply the shards of his consciousness that had been spread through time and space.

'Oh, brother,' I whispered. 'What have they done to you ?'

Ahriman twitched, and looked at me. His voice came out ragged and pain-wracked :

' _We were wrong, Iskandar. So wrong about everything … they are coming for you. Run. RUN !'_

* * *

AN : Two chapters out in the same day ! That's what comes from writing in parallel : nothing for a while, then several things all at once. Of course, the shorter chapters of this fic help too.

And so the soul-shard of Horus falls, Iskandar gets a little closer to his destiny, and Ahriman's doom is revealed in all its horror. Next up, Drol Kheir, to learn what happened there during Khayon's absence, and what he intends to do there ... I need to decide whether to write it in 1st or 3rd person before I start on it, though.

At first, I intended to have a longer discussion between Iskandar and Horus, but I cut it for two reasons. One, from what we have seen of Horus' shards in the Horus Heresy novel _Slaves to Darkness_ , they can't exactly be discussed with. I suspect that the Dark Gods did something to Horus' fragments to make them unable to realize their predicament (since even a piece of Horus' soul is quite the prize, and would try to escape if it realized it's trapped and fighting for nothing). Two, well ... Iskandar _sucks_ at diplomacy. It's not a theory on my part : it's an actual, canon fact. The _one_ time Abaddon sent him as an envoy to convince a Sons of Horus warband to join the Black Legion, it ended with bolter fire and the warband being annihilated (and Abaddon had known that would happen and planned on it, since he didn't want that warband's leader to join them but couldn't not make the offer). So, combining these two things, there wasn't any purpose to extending a conversation that would go nowhere.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please tell me what you thought about it in your reviews !

Zahariel out.


	63. To Rule in Hell : A Guide to Sortiarius

I am Amon, Captain of the Ninth Fellowship of the Thousand Sons Legion, Exalted Sorcerer, and Equerry to my Primarch, Magnus the Red. I fought alongside my brothers on Prospero, bled at the Siege of Terra, stood by Ahriman as we unleashed the Rubric, and fought those who would crush our renewed dream. I am a lord of the Illuminated Empire, and the caretaker of Sortiarius.

As the mind of my Primarch focuses on greater things and some of the greatest among us leave the Planet of the Sorcerers behind to accomplish his bidding, it is left to me to manage this wondrous and terrible world. While Ahriman leads a coalition of our allies to seize that which will secure our future, and Khayon hunts the remnants of our foes within the Great Eye, I have remained behind.

For though my mind is strong and my power greater than ever before, my body is still broken, brought near to death by the wounds I sustained during the rebellion and the effort it took me to play my part in our father's tragedy. Yet I am not bitter, for there is such glory to be found on Sortiarius. It is not Prospero – it will never be the equal of my lost homeworld in my heart. But it is a beautiful place, for those with the eyes to see it and the strength required to appreciate it.

Cities rise from the dust of Sortiarius, conjured by the imagination of those who live there and the inscrutable whims of the Pantheons. Monuments from the distant past and impossible futures appear in deserts where each grain of sand is a tiny gemstone glowing in the light of the nine suns. Landmasses are reshaped, and entire cultures emerge from the masses of mutants and cultists before vanishing once more. The dreams and desires of all who inhabit Sortiarius shape these manifestations of the planet's changing nature in some manner – often a cruel and unexpected one to be sure, but always one that offers the chance of self-improvement and discovery.

Many of these wonders are ephemeral, lasting no more than a month, a day, or a moment before being swallowed back into the roiling energies of Change. But, through the power of an Exalted Sorcerer, a conclave of our Rubric-empowered battle-brothers, or the sheer willpower of one blessed by the Changing God, these places can be preserved. My brothers are all familiar with that concept : it is how we build our Silver Towers, after all, such as the one in which I stand as I consign these words to parchment. But there are many others.

This document is a list of but a few of such places, anchored into existence by esteemed members of the Illuminated Empire. It is my hope to circulate it among my Legion, that my brothers may learn more about this strange and magnificent planet we now call home. Despite the great victories we have already earned, despite the alliances we have made, the power we have grasped and the conquests we have claimed, there are still many in the Eye who would see us fall. Knowledge of our homeworld's mysteries may be the key to the continued survival of both our Legion and its dreams.

 _Side note : Travelling on Sortiarius  
_ _The nature of reality is flexible on Sortiarius, and so are distance and direction. The best way to journey from one location of note to the next, I have found, is to focus one's will upon the intended destination and follow a straight line, crossing all obstacles that the Planet of the Sorcerers puts in the way. Teleportation is also a possibility for members of the Legion, and there exists a wide array of flying creatures that can be used (some formerly gunships of the Legions, other bound daemons or transfigured animals). Walking, as I learned myself during the rebellion, is the hardest way to go anywhere – but, in some cases, it might be the only way to reach the destination._

 **T** **he Nameless City**

When we first arrived on Sortiarius, fleeing from Prospero's doom, we of the Thousand Sons were not alone. Magnus' great spell also saved those of the Spireguard and Prospero's people who had managed to survive the savagery of the Wolves and seek refuge with us at our last stand.

Traumatized by the destruction of their world and finding themselves in a strange, new environment, they gathered at the foot of the Tower of the Cyclops, seeking our protection by remaining close to our Primarch's domain. Thus was founded the first and greatest city of the Illuminated Empire, and today it has flourished beyond our wildest dreams.

Millions of souls now call it home. High spires rise toward the heavens, none coming even close to matching the Tower of the Cyclops' height. Wizards, witches and wyrds come to study in the great universities, built and maintained by a cadre of Thousand Sons and their mortal apprentices. On Moebius-strip shaped assembly lines, thousands of workers craft goods for the Illuminated Empire and its masters, under the watchful eye of Dark Mechanicum overseers. In the streets, patrols of the Spire Guard venture from their stronghold and keep public order, enforcing the peace, if not the law, through brute force if necessary. All members of the Spire Guard are descendants of those soldiers who fought alongside the Fifteenth Legion during the Great Crusade (or, thanks to the strangeness of time on Sortiarius, veterans from the Burning themselves). They all bear the blessing of the Thousand Sons, who personally select those worthy of joining the ranks, and to strike one of them down is to invite the wrath of the son of Magnus who sponsored their entrance into the Guard.

The Nameless City is called thus because all who know of its existence also know that it _has_ a name, but one that their minds refuse to comprehend. To know of the city at the foot of the Tower is to know yet _not know_ this name at the same time, which led to this nickname being used instead.

During the war against Mortarion, the Tower moved across the surface of Sortiarius, its power bolstering our defenses against the hordes of the Lord of Death. Yet always it returned to the Nameless City, where a bottomless chasm opened in the ground in its absence.

Those who live in the Nameless City are inevitably changed by their proximity to the Tower of the Cyclops. Magnus' aura presses on their souls at all times, especially when the Crimson King performs his great works atop his Tower. Visions of the one-eyed Primarch permeate dreams and visions, yet it also grants a respite for those psychically sensitive. In the Nameless City, psykers who attune themselves to the Tower's emanations are shielded from other daemonic interference. They can sleep without fear of the Neverborn slipping into their soul, for the children of Chaos are kept at bay by the intensity of Magnus' soul-fire. When our Primarch departed for Medrengard, there were riots in the streets, as his absence was keenly felt by those psykers who had grown dependant on his presence. Even today, despite the best efforts of the Sekhmet warriors tasked with maintaining order around the Tower, shrines to the Crimson King are constantly built near its base.

By common accord, no Exalted Sorcerer may raise his Silver Tower within the boundaries of the Nameless City. Still, several towers (including mine and Ahriman's) exist as close to the city as permitted, to remain closest to our father. Ahriman's tower has been empty since his departure with the Black Crusade to Tallarn, and there have been reports of strange sounds and lights inside (strange even by the standards of this world). Though the prospect of intruding into the domain of another Exalted Sorcerer does not please me, I fear that if Ahriman does not return soon, the safety of the Nameless City will demand that we investigate. Until then, all denizens of Sortiarius, be they human, blessed mutants, Astartes or daemon, are proscribed from approaching Ahriman's tower.

 **Al'Kyreh,** **Birthplace of the Ascended**

The city of Al'Kyreh was one of the first settlements we established on Sortiarius after the casting of the Rubric, to house the countless thousands of souls drawn to our resurgent power. During the war against the Plague Legions of Mortarion, the city was caught in an accelerated flow of time, resulting in the hyper-evolution of its inhabitants into what we now call the Ascended. Under the leadership of Akhor'menet and his brothers, the people of Al'Kyreh were guided over many generations, enabling them to reach a new stage of Mankind's psychic evolution. The Ascended wield psychic power far beyond what the common psyker can harness, and through the training program designed by Akhor'menet, they are able to pool these energies together in order to accomplish truly extraordinary feats. Though they have spread all across Sortiarius – indeed, some of them have left the planet altogether, joining the Illuminated Empire's efforts of conquest in the Eye of Terror – Al'Kyreh remains their birthplace, and it has been shaped by them body and soul.

The architecture of Al'Kyreh was transformed during its isolation, to accommodate the crippled flesh of the Ascended. Stairs were replaced by ramps, and any image of untwisted humans was removed to avoid tormenting those of the Ascended who suffered from their deformities. The entire city is dedicated to the ascension of the human race, with buildings dedicated to breeding more Ascended and temples where they learn to master their innate abilities.

As the city struggled against the forces of the Plague God trapped with them in the accelerated region, the very layout of the streets was altered to form arcane configurations that helped the defenders of Al'Kyreh draw upon the power of the inhabitants. It is said that Al'Kyreh is alive, a newborn intellect that has yet to fully awaken to consciousness. Akhor'menet isn't sure whether or not that is the case, but there have been tales of streets changing shapes and gates leading to other places that their normal destinations, bringing help to the sites of accident or, during the two wars that were fought in Al'Kyreh, deliver reinforcements to battle in record time.

Though the normal passage of time in Al'Kyreh and its surroundings was restored, the city still suffers from some after-effects. In some portions of the city, the flow of time is still accelerated. These pockets are ever-diminishing, despite the efforts of the Thousand Sons to maintain them, as they are used to quicken the breeding and growth of more Ascended. Akhor'menet still search for a way to master the strange chronomantic effects, which could prove invaluable to the Legion.

Deep beneath the surface of the city, in catacombs dug into the rock with sorcerous power, the by-products of forceful evolution lie sealed away. Though Akhor'menet's experiments were ultimately successful, he encountered many failures along the way, creating psychic abominations of flesh. Devoid of humanity, lacking self-awareness or unable to contain their own power, these creatures were imprisoned into the subterranean vaults, sealed behind the greatest wards Akhor'menet and his brothers could design with centuries to work on them. These vaults were breached during the Slaaneshi War, but have since been rebuilt, the escaped prisoners either destroyed or captured again.

In the wake of that conflict, it was decided that Al'Kyreh's underground would now also serve as a prison for the enemies of the Illuminated Empire. Many survivors of the Slaaneshi Host were brought there in chains, awaiting judgement. The security measures that hold the monstrous sons of Al'Kyreh have proved more than enough to contain the degenerate slaves of the Dark Prince. Even Lucius the Eternal, Chosen of Slaanesh, was unable to escape before Khayon released him. According to Akhor'menet, these precautions are entirely justified, for the deepest levels of the prison hold the most terrible of all of Al'Kyreh's children : those who were caught in the worst of the time-bending effect. Having existed for tens of thousands of years, these beings are utterly mad, their minds twisted into alien patterns and possessing of immense power. How many of these ancient abominations exist is unknown, but one cannot help but think of the Thousand Sons who were within the city when it was sealed during the Plague War and "fell honorably" against the Death Guard …

 **Ezyrthin, the Library-City**

Since our very inception, we of the Fifteenth Legion have understood the power of the written word. During the Great Crusade, we sought to preserve the records of the civilizations we encountered, even as we fought to bring them to compliance. When the Wolves attacked us, they burned everything, callously destroying the accumulated wisdom of millennia in mere hours. And though Magnus preserved tens of thousands of books, scrolls, tablets, and other means of storing knowledge, these represented but a fraction of all that had been lost. For years, we mourned the loss of Prospero's lore, perhaps even more than we mourned that of its people. But after the Rubric restored hope to our Legion, we swore that we would rebuild all that had been destroyed.

So was founded Ezyrthin, where hundreds of sons of Magnus came to write down all that they remembered from Prospero's great libraries. Private collections, salvaged from the flames, were donated or copied. And as our forces spread across the Eye, all the knowledge they found was sent back to the stacks of Ezyrthin. The librarians who catalogue the contents of Ezyrthin and guide visitors have also reported entire sections appearing out of nowhere, containing books whose titles are known, but which were thought lost, either during the Burning of Prospero or during the Long Night. These librarians aren't entirely human : they start off mortal, but the place changes them. Their eye sockets melt away into their skulls, yet they are still able to see their surroundings and read, even in complete darkness. They often wear blindfolds, to avoid disturbing visitors – the higher-ranking librarians wear masks of precious metal that cover the upper half of their face.

Though Ezyrthin is so immense it can be called a city, there is only one entrance : the Antharian Gate. When we built Ezyrthin, we knew from bitter experience that such a repository of lore would eventually be attacked by those who would drag us all into ignorance. And so a circle of nine Exalted Sorcerers wielded their power and bent space around the Library-City, cutting it off completely from the rest of Sortiarius – save through the Antharian Gate. It is an immense arch, wide enough for fifty men to walk through it at once and high enough for a Warhound Titan. Such size was required due to the size of some of the works brought in, such as the great pillar of obsidian from the daemon world of Nejur, whose surface is covered by the last prophecies of Aurobach, the Half-Breed Seer. Thousands of scholars press before the Gate every day, seeking entrance into the hallowed halls of Ezyrthin. All who would enter are tested, their minds inspected by telepaths to ensure that no enemy of the Illuminated Empire sneak in. Inside the Library-City, security is ensured by daemon-possessed gargoyles, kept locked in place until someone breaks one of Ezyrthin's laws. Most of the time, their work consists of separating feuding scholars coveting the same book, or excruciating any who bring an open flame inside the stacks.

The Antharian Gate was breached during the Plague War, and only Ctesias, Exalted Sorcerer and mightiest daemonist of the Fifteenth Legion, prevented them from entering. At the Gate, Ctesias summoned a host of Neverborn that repelled the forces of Mortarion's host. Since the ruination visited upon him during the Slaaneshi War, Ctesias has been appointed the lord of Ezyrthin. He has begun work on enhancing the defenses of the Library-City, by turning the Antharian Gate into a massive reliquary, able to contain the captive essences of thousands of daemons ready to be unleashed upon any would-be invader. Since Ctesias is no longer able to hunt for Neverborn on his own, and his responsibilities keep him in Ezyrthin anyway, he has called for assistance, promising access to the restricted sections of the stacks in exchange for the True Names of potent daemons.

 **The Pyramid**

Built in preparation of the war against the Slaaneshi Host, the Pyramid is a weapon of incredible power, that can only be used by one of Magnus' gene-line. It was built by the Ascended under the direction of the Thousand Sons, and he who can master its power can crack open the world. Nearly three hundred meters high, the Pyramid is covered with a perfectly flat silver lining inscribed with runes of power. At its top lies a small platform built around the Pyramid's tip, which ends in a smaller, crimson pyramid : the Keystone, claimed by Ahriman from the depths of the Empyrean.

Since the end of the Slaaneshi War, the awesome power of the Pyramid hasn't been used. By decree of the Crimson King, none may approach it, and the daemonic constructs that were once animated to defend it from Fulgrim's hordes have been restored and patrol the area, mercilessly striking down any intruders. However, the unquestionable success of the Pyramid project has led some Sorcerers to try and replicate it on a smaller scale. Flying high enough to avoid drawing the guardians' attention (for even the sons of Magnus are not immune to his decree, as was discovered when Khayon had to pull the souls of four of our brothers into cloned bodies after they were obliterated), these Thousand Sons study the Pyramid from afar, reaching out with their second sight to comprehend the great spellwork woven into the structure, noting their observations in grimoires fashioned from the hide of beastmen and paper made of trees that bear the faces of the dead.

They have built other, smaller pyramids (and other structures as well) in the surrounding areas. Like the Pyramid itself, they drain the energy of nearby psykers while under construction, and the Sorcerers don't have access to the thousands of Ascended who, by pooling their powers, could overcome this effect and build the Pyramid. Instead, these structures are built by hand, using slaves dragged from the cities of the Planet of the Sorcerers, who give their toil, blood and souls to complete the work that is demanded of them. Such is the precision required for this work that a deviation of a fraction of a degree in two stones' alignment can have disastrous consequences upon activation – which is why it is unfortunately common for the structures to be destroyed half-way to completion and started anew when a flaw is discovered. When that happens, even the patience of a son of Magnus may fray, and the ruins of abandoned projects are seeded with the bones of those who failed to work to their master's exacting expectations. Still, a few structures have been completed, rising from the desert around the Pyramid like the old tombs of Gyptia, on Old Earth.

Atop these sorcerous monuments, our brothers perform arcane rituals, seeking to draw upon the power of Sortiarius itself as the Pyramid does. They have managed to accomplish impressive things already, but their successes are limited by the resources at their disposal. After working separately, they have started to meet and discuss the possibility of constructing a network of smaller structures, arrayed in arcane patterns, in order to magnify the scale of the power. Of course, this project would have to be performed far from the Pyramid itself to avoid interfering with Sortiarius' great weapon. Discussions are still ongoing, as is the search for an appropriate site.

The Exalted Sorcerer Amenex has dedicated himself to the success of that enterprise. He has brought his Silver Tower as near to the Pyramid as allowed, and has drawn many of the Sorcerers working there to his side. By combining their research and using his influence, he believes that he can secure the materials and labor required to launch the project. I know that he has reached out to several of the warbands operating on the borders of the Illuminated Empire, offering great rewards in return for slaves.

 **Merkarad, the City of Nine-Hundred-And-Ninety-Nine Daemons**

During the Plague War, we were forced to fight alongside the daemons of Tzeentch that manifested on Sortiarius, claiming that they had been sent by the God of Lies to assist us. At the time, we were not in a position to refuse help freely given, however much we might want to, and so we accepted what they were saying – if not believed it. I have to give the fiends credit : they _did_ fight against the minions of the Plague God, and only those who went to them willingly, in spite of the repeated warnings of Magnus and the Exalted Sorcerers, found themselves enthralled.

After Mortarion was defeated, we had to deal with these daemons. Those too feral or arrogant to be negotiated with were banished or enslaved, and the others were offered a choice. They could remain on Sortiarius, but only within a limited area : a city where they would be allowed to dwell and do as they pleased. By Magnus' decree, no more than nine hundred and ninety-nine daemons would be allowed to inhabit this new city. The will of the Crimson King spread across the Planet of the Sorcerers, and by the time Khayon and Ctesias had dealt with the last Tzeentchian daemon that exact number were bound within the borders of Merkarad. Mightiest of these are the Twelve, a gathering of powerful Daemon Lords and Princes who have imposed their law upon Merkarad, forcing all of the remaining nine hundred and eighty-seven daemons to choose a master among the Twelve. They have built themselves monumental palaces in Merkarad, temples reflecting their own unique brand of madness and power, and hundreds come to pray before them.

The earth around Merkarad was elevated to the height of mountains within a single day, making it look as if the city was built inside a crater or volcano. There exist nine tunnels through the mountains leading to the City, and each entrance is guarded by Astartes and bound daemons. It is through these passages that the thralls of the Thousand But One (as the daemons of Merkarad are called) come and go. The mortals are not trapped within the city along with their masters, and while many remain within Merkarad itself, serving the daemons directly, many more are sent on missions across Sortiarius and even beyond the Planet of the Sorcerers. The population of Merkarad is estimated around five millions, and all are part of one of the daemons' cult – or they are one of the few souls brave or foolish enough to believe that they can outsmart the servants of Tzeentch at their own game. The Thousand But One scheme and plot endlessly, pursuing unknowable goals. Some desire to accumulate relics of power with which to tempt scions of Magnus' line into thralldom, while others seek to gather as many mortal souls as possible for some sinister end. Above all else, though, the daemons (especially the Twelve) desire the service of warriors of the Fifteenth Legion.

Though the Thousand But One are unable to leave Merkarad, they can still leave Sortiarius if they so choose, by abandoning their current incarnation and returning to the tides of the Empyrean. None have willingly chosen to do so, though a few were banished in internecine feuds. Every time that has happened, the daemonists who keep watch over the city have sensed a pulse of energy as another Tzeentchian Neverborn manifested itself within its borders, maintaining its infernal population. Magnus' decree has imprinted itself upon the city, and shall ever remain law.

A small group of Corvidae adepts believe that Merkarad's founding is part of a larger plan, but whether the Crimson King is aware of it is unclear to them. They believe that the name of the daemonic court – the Thousand But One – is more than a wordplay on our Legion's name : they think it is a prophecy, or perhaps a warning. They believe that, should Magnus' decree be broken and a thousandth daemon come to inhabit Merkarad, this would mean the end of Sortiarius.

 **The Lake of Kepturu**

In the Eye of Terror, where the laws of physics are subject to the whims of incomprehensible powers and the soul of every world is shaped by the minds of those who walk upon it, very few things are as precious as water. Oceans of blood and bile are common, but those cannot be used to appease an army's thirst – unless that army has been stripped of all pretence of humanity by the Eye's warping tides. Sources of clean water are even rarer, and they are fought over more fiercely than almost any other prize. There are several sources of water on Sortiarius, but all of them are temporary things – rain falling from the skies in sudden downpours, geysers bursting from dry rock, tsunamis appearing out of nowhere and ravaging entire deserts – except for the Lake of Kepturu.

Lord Vortigern, once a warrior of the First Legion, now a leader among the Fallen (as those of the Lion's sons who turned against the False Emperor are called) rule over the Kepturu region. It was he who discovered the immense lake of drinkable water at its center, during his valiant pursuit of a warband of Plague Marines fleeing from the wrath of the Illuminated Empire in the aftermath of Mortarion's defeat. Vortigern is a cunning soul, and he immediately saw the potential of the Lake. After dispatching the worshippers of Nurgle, he claimed the Lake and its immediate surroundings as his personal domain, before reaching out to other warlords who, like him, had rallied to the banner of the Fifteenth Legion. Seven such lords answered his call, and they built a ring of fortresses around the Lake, while Mechanicum adepts constructed water pumps.

The lake is sustained by several underground rivers, though where the water ultimately comes from is unknown. Each of the pumping stations has its output carefully monitored, for Vortigern wants to avoid dropping the water level below a certain point. That is because, as has been discovered by those who attempted to explore the lake, it is inhabited by marine creatures more than capable of tearing an armored Space Marine to shreds. Vortigern, knowing full well how dangerous _anything_ can be in the Eye of Terror, wants to avoid disturbing these creatures, even if it means lowering the production of water that has made him and his cohorts very, very rich and powerful in the Illuminated Empire. Warlords who have conquered entire worlds for the Empire go to him to resupply, and they must met his prices or risk their entire hosts perishing of thirst or turning on one another – in the Eye of Terror, many drink blood more than water. The other lords have benefited from that arrangement too, and the wealth they gain from it has ensured that the alliance is stronger than any other inter-Legion coalition in the Eye – an exemplar of cooperation through enlightened self-interest that several Thousand Sons study closely, hoping to find clues to help the Illuminated Empire's building.

Each of Kepturu's eight strongholds is designed to resist assaults from all directions, including orbital bombardment. The fortresses regularly fight off tribes of thirsting mutants, gathering in the savage lands of Sortiarius by the thousands before hurling themselves at the walls, and it isn't unheard of for particularly proud Chaos Lords to try to take what they want. It hasn't escaped the notice of observers that the fortresses are equally ready to stand against an enemy force that would attack _from_ the lake, rather than seek to reach it. That is because the fortresses serve a double purpose : prevent outsiders from plundering the lake's water, and be ready if something rises from its depths. Rumors abound of an entire civilization of water-breathing mutants living in coral cities at the bottom of the lake. Certainly, strange items have come out of the area, but on the Planet of the Sorcerers, there are many other possible origins for these artefacts beyond trade with fish-people.

 **The Tombs of Unborn Empires**

The Planet of the Sorcerers is littered with ruins from kingdoms without past, conjured from nothing by the random currents of Aetheric energies. Most of these ruins are too damaged (seemingly by thousands if not millions of years of exposure to the elements) to be of use, but on Sortiarius more than anywhere else, every rule has its exception. Far from any settlement, at the exact center of an immense plain of glassed bones, stands a small, unassuming mausoleum built of ordinary grey stone. Within that mausoleum lies a downward staircase leading to what may very well be one of Sortiarius' greatest vaults of treasures and secrets.

Discovered and named by the Exalted Sorcerer Azhtar Manutec while exploring Sortiarius, the Tombs of Unborn Empire are a vast, layered complex of underground crypts built with architectural styles belonging to species and civilizations that never existed. There, amidst the bones of creatures never before beheld by mortal eyes, are treasures, relics and weapons leftover from the never-existing kingdoms. And while most of these are still functional, so are the defenses left behind by the theoretical builders of the tombs. Cruel traps lie in wait, and daemons bound within animated statues with incantations spoken in stillborn languages hunger for the blood and souls that will make them as real as their kind can ever claim to be. Even the contents of the tombs can be dangerous, as some sarcophagi release noxious gasses upon being opened – or, far worse, the very remains they contain are inhabited by bound Neverborn animating them to attack the intruder.

Every level of these tombs seem to have been built by a different civilizations : the shape of the corridors, the architecture, and of course the treasures to be found, are all different. Some are crude, seemingly built by primitives digging into the ground, while others display a level of detail and artistry surpassing that of the Aeldari at the peak of their power. There don't appear to be a limit to the size of each floor : explorers of the very first level are still discovering new rooms and traps. Gaining access to a lower floor is difficult, as the ground of each level has proven resistant to every attempt at breaking through, no matter the technology or sorcery used. The deeper one goes, the greater the treasures to find – and the more deadly the perils encountered.

Under Azhtar's leadership, a small town has sprouted around the mausoleum containing the entrance to the Tombs. The Exalted Sorcerer remains there with a small cabal, exerting his power to prevent the Tombs from fading to existence. The actual exploration is performed by teams that gather, rest and equip in the town before descending into the Tombs. Traders flock to the settlement, trading supplies for the treasures discovered in the Tombs (Azhtar claims the most interesting artefacts as his tithe, but he has little interest in jewellery or other precious materials). A few Astartes take part in these expeditions, but most explorers are mortals, as they are simply more disposable, and only very rarely does a team return from the depths without suffering losses.

Historians and archaeologists (two occupations that, in the Eye of Terror, have very different ultimate goals than in the rest of the galaxy) have formed their own community in the settlement. They buy and study the items brought back by the exploration teams, seeking to piece together the histories of the Unborn Empires. Occasionally, they will even finance one such expedition for the sole purpose of escorting them to a particular area of the Tombs in order to examine them with their own eyes. A group of such scholars has theorized that there exists a common theme among all the cultures of the Tombs : that of a presence "down below", to be worshipped and feared. If that theory were to be correct, then perhaps that presence may dwell at the very bottom of the Tombs, however deep it is.

 **Jerelos Prime, the Blind City**

I was the one who brought the truth of the Imperial Creed to my brothers, and it was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my long life. Many sons of Magnus find it incomprehensible that Mankind would throw away the ideals of Illumination and return to obscurantism and fanaticism so quickly. And despite everything that has happened, the Thousand Sons are not the kind to simply accept things as they are. As the Illuminated Empire asserts its dominance over the Eye of Terror and preparations begin for the conquest of the rest of the galaxy, some among our Legion seek to research the strange faith of the Ecclesiarchy, and how its grip may be broken.

All research requires experimentation, and all experimentation requires test subjects. That is why the city of Jerelos Prime, capital of the Imperial world Jeremiah in the Kelleziar Sector, was stolen from the Imperium and transported to Sortiarius. After a thousand years of secrecy, entire families of cultists created by psychic sendings were able to trigger the spells slowly, painstakingly installed by their ancestors, and the whole city simply vanished – all that is left where it stood on Jeremiah is an immense crater haunted by the incorporeal daemons who slipped through during the ritual.

The Blind City's nickname comes from the vast array of spells woven around it that prevents its citizens from noticing anything abnormal. As far as the twenty million souls within its walls are concerned, they are still on Jeremiah, and life goes on as normal. Food and materials for its industry are still brought in on schedule, and those who need to leave the city as part of their routine come back with perfect memories of their trip. But under that illusion of normality, the Thousand Sons continue their research, under the command of the Exalted Sorcerer Seth, Keeper of the Veil.

The researchers pursue several avenues of experimentation, all of them aimed at developing methods to subvert faith in the Imperial Creed. Several cults have been created from the old families, each with slightly variant core beliefs, in order to see which are the more effective at tempting Imperials. The Ecclesiarchy presence in the city has been gutted, most priests captured for experimenting and replaced by flesh-crafted doppelgangers that slowly alter the contents of their sermons according to their masters' command. The few priests who were left at the post were all low-placed in the Church's hierarchy, and they are intended to serve as a control group.

To break their faith in the False Emperor's protection, monsters are unleashed in the streets at night, preying upon all unlucky enough to cross their path. They are carefully monitored – their purpose isn't wholesale slaughter but the instillation of fear, in order to make the citizens doubt the Ecclesiarchy's promises of divine protection. Some of these monsters were once citizens themselves, having served their purpose as subjects for psychological experiments and transformed by the Pavoni Arts into new and terrifying forms. The borders of Jerelos Prime are kept under guard at all times, not just to keep the citizens from wandering outside, but also to prevent the other denizens of Sortiarius from interfering. Twenty million human lives are a tempting prize, but so far Seth and his forces have been able to repel the mutant tribes and persuade slave-seeking warbands that their time was better spent searching elsewhere.

Though the wards isolating the city also keep the worst of the Warp energies of Sortiarius at bay, they aren't perfect. People affected by these currents of mutagenic power are driven mad or turned into monsters. To deal with them and avoid panic and a breach of secrecy, hunters patrol the city. They look human (but are most certainly not, with some of them being a gift from the Primogenitor) and bear a subtly altered Inquisitorial emblem to ensure the civilians look the other way while they hunt "deviants". These hunters are also responsible for dealing with any psyker manifesting within the city, as they may be able to sense the illusions surrounding them and ruin the entire experiment. Since coming to Sortiarius, Jerelos Prime has been free of the "witch-taint". Such individuals are brought to the Governor's palace, where their blood and souls are used to maintain the wards.

 **The Burning Garden**

The fact that the rebel armies that fled into the Eye of Terror are able to survive in this place continues to astonish me every day. Even before the Rubric, we Thousand Sons were powerful enough to avoid suffering from the worst of this place's effects – our will could reshape our surroundings and shield us from its touch, even as it did nothing for the curse already in our blood. But others are not so lucky, and I believe that the reason why so many survive – indeed, in some cases, prosper _–_ in the Eye of Terror is because of Humanity's legendary adaptability. There is no situation that human beings cannot turn around, no set of circumstances that they cannot exploit.

Stretching across several hundred kilometers of multicoloured stand, the Burning Garden is a testament to this adaptable spirit. In the Garden, the unpredictable power of Tzeentch runs wilder than almost anywhere else on Sortiarius. The nine suns move randomly in the sky, causing the temperature to fluctuate from blazing hot to freezing. Dunes melt into water over the course of several weeks before solidifying into crimson glass in the blink of an eye. And everywhere, plants grow at impossible speed, fast enough that their growth can be seen with the naked eye, before erupting into aetheric fire the moment they reach maturity and release a cloud of hallucinogenic spores into the air. It is a place that can kill in minutes, and yet hundreds of people live there.

The tribes of the Garden are nomadic by necessity, wandering the desert and setting camp when they find a suitable spot. They harvest the plants of the Garden before they burn, and fashion from them everything from food to clothing to esoteric concoctions that they trade to merchant caravans from other regions of the Planet of the Sorcerers. Each tribe is led by a shaman, a witch trained in the arts of divination and alchemy, responsible for guiding his kindred to safe havens and crafting the drugs they imbibe to fight the monsters of the Burning Garden. For humans are not the only animals in this land : other beasts dwell there too, mutants whose diet of warped plants has transformed them even further. And some of the plants are dangerous by themselves, twisted by the Warp into flesh-eating maws that clasp onto men and dissolve them slowly, their souls becoming shrieking faces showing on their beautiful petals until it erupts in flames and they are released.

Only the bravest traders dare go into the Garden, and all of them do so with a native guide and a heavy guard. Thrall Wizards, cult leaders and even Thousand Sons purchase the plants of the Garden at a hefty price, and these merchants can grow very prosperous very quickly if they aren't devoured, roasted or frozen alive before making their first big break. According to the tribes, there is another danger in the Garden to which such caravans sometimes fall : the restless spirit of a fallen angel. In the tribes' myths, this angel wandered into the desert, heartbroken from some great calamity, and shed his own blood upon the sands. The power of the blood created the current conditions of the Garden, but the soul of the angel was bound to this land, forever trapped in his final moment. A few sons of Magnus believe that the "angel" of that story was one of us, who, after the Burning of Prospero, left the rest of the Legion and met his end. Sadly, such a tale is hardly unique.

This coven seeks a guide to lead them to the restless spirit in the hope of either relieving their brother from his torment or, if possible, return his soul to the Rubric so that he may be resurrected. So far, none of the tribesmen have known where to go, or been willing to lead them there if they did. And one must wonder : should the cabal succeed, what fate would befall the Garden ?

 **Heka'Tarak, the City of Artisans**

During the Great Crusade, Heka was a craftsman of rare talent, who took great joy in building beautiful, intricate devices that were gifted to the rulers of worlds newly welcomed into the Imperium. But, like all of us, he changed when the Wolves attacked Prospero, losing his interest in beauty and embracing the ruthless necessities of the new age we all found ourselves in. In the time between the fall of Prospero and our return from the Eye at the side of Horus' Legions, Heka had become renowned in the Fifteenth for his mastery of infernal binding. He forged the seven blades that were used by the World Eaters in the destruction of the Orion Space Fortress at Terra, weapons so powerful that a handful of warriors were able to crash through the Imperial defenses and open the way for the rest of the armada before they were consumed by the terrible energies.

The city of Heka'Tarak (which means _"Heka's Vengeance"_ in an ancient Prosperine dialect) is a metropolis of sorcerous industry, where thousands of artisans work to produce blades, bolters, and armors, all of them imbued with the power of bound Neverborn. Heka resides within his castle, surrounded by weapons of terrible power, always working on another project. His apprentices (which include Thousand Sons, Sorcerers from other Legions, and even talented mortals) are responsible for managing the human council that actually runs the city. Smiths forge weapons and armor according to exacting designs, and circles of Thrall Wizards summon the daemons that are then bound into the object by one of the apprentices. Completing a single piece of equipment takes months, and the waiting list is quite long (though it can be jumped with the proper offerings).

Below the city, legions of brass golems mine the metal that is forged into Heka'Tarak's treasures. These tireless constructs have dug an extensive network of tunnels, and all manners of materials have been found down there – from plain iron to adamantium, from copper to gold and diamond, and other, less identifiable stones that must be studied and experimented on to figure out how (and if) to forge them. Outside the Eye of Terror, the city would have collapsed under its own weight long ago, but on Sortiarius, because the metal of the mines support the city's economy, so do the mines support the city's architecture. Occasionally, groups of golems are found smashed to pieces, and the overseers of the mine have called for help investigating just what it is destroying their workforce. But since there haven't been any deaths so far, a response has yet to come.

To deal with the daemons who get loose and the customers who would rather threaten the artisans than pay their price, Heka'Tarak has a peacekeeping force comprised of black knights in heavy armor, all of them armed with a bladed weapon and a heavy shield. This equipment is among the city's finest : both the armor and the weapon are imbued with the essence of a bound daemon, while the shield is inscribed with potent wards against psychic energy. All of these knights were once unaugmented humans who proved their strength of body and will. Those who survive the apposition of their armor can never take it off, their lives sustained by the power of the two daemons relentlessly tugging at their souls. They patrol the city in groups of five, a number capable of dealing with an escaped daemon or a would-be Chaos Champion seeking to steal a weapon.

The first of these knights fought alongside Heka against the ghosts and daemons that haunted the ruins on which the city was built. Of the nine hundred warriors Heka took with him to that battle, only thirteen survived, but the site was purged and the building began. Today, these veterans are the leaders of their juniors (who, because their enchantments were cast not by Heka but by his apprentices, are much less powerful). Rumor has it that there is nothing human left within their armor – that, through Heka's sorcery, they have achieved a limited form of daemonhood.

 **The Watchful Bastion**

At the end of the Plague War, the Chaos Lord Garthak, once called the Last Blade by his brothers among the Sons of Horus, sought to desecrate the ruins of Tizca. He planned a grand ritual that would have exploited the weakness in reality left by the Crimson King's great spell to open a portal between Sortiarius and the Plague Planet, allowing the armies of Nurgle to rush back from their banishment onto the Death Guard's homeworld following Mortarion's defeat.

Though Garthak was slain before his ritual could be completed, his actions had revealed that Tizca, site of our Legion's greatest shame, could still be used against us. It was therefore decided that a fortress would be built nearby, to monitor the ruins for any sign of an attempt to cross through the lingering rift. Because no son of Magnus wanted to spend too long near the greatest reminder of our lost past, and as a sign of trust between the two Legions, the Iron Warriors were given the responsibility for building and manning the Watchful Bastion. The Fourth Legion took to the task with its typical skill, raising a massive fortress home to a company of several hundred Iron Warriors and thousands of mortal soldiers. This Bastion was built on the outskirts of Tizca's ruins, and serves as headquarters for the patrols around the fallen city's borders. Besides would-be intruders, these patrols must also contend with Sortiarus' unnatural wildlife, as well as the lingering ghosts of Tizca. The past does not rest easily on the Planet of the Sorcerers, and wraiths born of the memories of the great battle between us and the Wolves still stir amidst the dust of our old world.

Within the Bastion itself are several psykers monitored by a single Thousand Son Sorcerer (an unenviable role that doesn't last more than a few months at a time). These psykers monitor the Aether within the ruins, and must regularly be replaced as their minds are consumed by the echoes of Prospero's fall. For now, there has been no sign of activity within the rift, though some of the Sorcerers tasked with monitoring it have worked on a theory about how it could potentially be used, not to invade Sortiarius, but to journey _out_ of the Eye of Terror and back to Prospero itself, inside the Imperium. The idea of returning to our dead homeworld in such a fashion sits ill with most sons of Magnus, but the tactical advantages of such a move cannot be ignored.

Despite the sacred and forbidden nature of the ruins, there are many who try to enter them, drawn by legends of the treasures left behind in Tizca. Some come from Sortiarius itself, while others hail from other regions of the Eye, where tales of the Illuminated Empire's wealth and power have fused with stories of the ruins. We don't know where these rumors originated from : we took everything of value with us when we left the ruins after the transfer to the Planet of the Sorcerers. Yet there is clearly some truth to them, as strange artefacts have been found on such grave-robbers captured while returning from the ruins. Upon examination, it was discovered that these items were _not_ of Tizcan origin, raising the question of where they came from. The current leading theory is that they were spontaneously created by Sortiarius, a reflection of the treasure-hunters' own expectations.

The commander of the Watchful Bastion is a Warsmith. With the help of his own Sorcerers, he has been studying the artefacts taken from the treasure-hunters. He has recently contacted the leadership of the Illuminated Empire, raising concerns that these items may serve a more sinister purpose, and asking for support to investigate the ruins themselves. So far, between the preparations for the Black Crusade and the ongoing construction of the Empire's dominion, his calls have gone unanswered.

 **Nakra'Leth**

If Al'Kyreh is the homeland of the Ascended, Nakra'Leth is their first attempt at creating a colony. After the Slaaneshi War and the disaster that nearly befell Al'Kyreh, Akhor'menet decided to send some of the Ascended elsewhere, to prevent the entire species from being wiped out in a single strike. One in three of the Ascended were selected at random, regardless of age, power or position, and they became the first settlers of Nakra'Leth. After the horrors unleashed upon the city by the machinations of Fulgrim and Erebus, few resisted the command, seeing the wisdom in spreading themselves. They were also curious : Al'Kyreh had been originally built as a city meant for human beings, not Ascended, and they wondered what they could create now that their minds had outgrown their frail flesh. The result was as impressive as could be expected.

Working solely with their psychic powers, the Ascended built Nakra'Leth from the ground. Their will transformed the earth and they shaped it into buildings, towers and walls – for the memories of the Plague War are still vivid in their minds. The architecture of the Second City is even more outlandish than that of Al'Kyreh, with absolutely no thought given for how individuals unable of levitation may navigate it. High spires have their entrances several meters above ground, with no bridge connecting them. Entire streets are bathed in sorcerous fire at ground level, drawn from the planet's very core. Sculptures and other artworks pleasing to the Ascended's altered senses hover in the air, suspended in time and space. There is little order, as the Ascended worked with little common direction at first. Now that the walls are up, though, the city's leaders have begun to plan for controlled destruction and rebuilding of certain sections.

Unlike in Al'Kyreh, where Akhor'menet and his brothers are in power, the Ascended of Nakra'Leth rule themselves. Akhor'menet commanded it be so, rather than put one of his brothers in charge, in order to see whether the Ascended (who are the closest form of Humanity's ultimate psychic evolution existing) are able to manage themselves without the involvement of the Legion. So far, there have been no true difficulties to speak of, though reality around Nakra'Leth is even less stable than elsewhere on Sortiarius. Without the strict hierarchy installed by the Exalted Sorcerers, the Ascended are experimenting with their powers, challenging one another in mental confrontations to establish a new order. Even the breeding programs instituted by Akhor'menet have slowed down, as more effort is put into building the city and figuring out ways for the Ascended to live by themselves. The supplies required to feed those of the Ascended unable to draw sustenance directly from the Empyrean (which represents about 70% of them) are the same mushrooms and heavily mutated cattle that was employed in Al'Kyreh during the siege.

The current leader of Nakra'Leth is a female Ascended known as Andariulle. Born near the end of the Plague War, such is her psychic prowess that it is impossible to distinguish her true physical form when looking at her. Even the second sight of an Exalted Sorcerer will only perceive a storm of barely controlled energies. If not for blood samples (which were extremely difficult to obtain without injuring her), we would not even know that she was indeed an Ascended and not some monstrous spawn of the Warp. Andariulle established control over Nakra'Leth through a combination of her great power and diplomacy, and she intends to make the Second City a force to be reckoned with in the Illuminated Empire, for the good of all Ascended.

While the Thousand Sons are welcome within Nakra'Leth, they aren't encouraged to actually settle in the city. Akhor'menet has made his intentions for it clear, and the Ascended are determined to prove to the Exalted Sorcerer that they are worthy of the trust he put in them. As a result, they will not take kindly to anyone trying to influence them. Some sons of Magnus visit the city, and a few have taken Ascended back to their holdings, offering them positions as students and servants. All such offers, however, must be willingly accepted lest one draw the wrath of Akhor'menet, whose authority over the Ascended has been acknowledged by Magnus himself.

 **The Halls of Resurrection**

The impact that Iskandar Khayon's discovery of resurrection had on the Illuminated Empire can hardly be overstated. Through the Necromancer, the Thousand Sons are no longer bound by the laws of life and death, by which all Humanity, from its very beginning, has been forced to abide. As he worked to return the brothers lost to Mortarion's army to us, many other sons of Magnus, Sorcerers and Exalted Sorcerers alike, gathered around him, watching furiously, trying to understand how this miracle worked. Khayon himself could only offer limited explanations : his understanding of the spell had occurred suddenly, in a desperate moment, and on a subconscious level, rather than through trial and error.

Due to the number of victims of the Plague War, a structure was built to house the bodies of the fallen and to monitor those who had been resurrected – even Khayon admitted that this was necessary, as he couldn't be sure that it was truly his brothers he had brought back to life. Nowadays, in the Halls, Pavoni adepts work alongside Apothecaries to replicate the work of the Necromancer. Vast data-vaults contain multiple copies of the gene-code of every son of Magnus, preserved in case their body is completely destroyed and a new one must be cloned from scratch – a process that the research of Fabius Bile has immensely improved.

Finding subjects for testing has obviously been difficult, but even with the greatest enemies of the Illuminated Empire beaten, a trickle of victims is still shipped back to Sortiarius. The conquest of the Eye of Terror, even from a position of overwhelming superiority, cannot be painless, and sons of Magnus still fall on distant battlefields. By combining the cloning chambers with complex rituals and a truly ridiculous amount of psychic power, supplied by a dozen Exalted Sorcerers working together, the adepts of the Hall are able to return the soul of a dead Thousand Son warrior to his body. The process is very slow, however, requiring several days of uninterrupted chanting. In addition, it is a traumatic experience, and the resurrected warrior often suffers from partial amnesia, as his mind shuts parts of itself down to avoid reliving the trauma of resurrection.

These rituals may be inferior to Khayon's own power, but they can be performed without the presence of the Necromancer, leaving him available for other duties (such as the hunt for Eidolon and the remains of the Slaaneshi Host that he is prosecuting at the time of writing). Indeed, had these alternatives not been discovered, it's unlikely Magnus would ever have let Iskandar leave Sortiarius again, lest he risk losing one of the Illuminated Empire's greatest assets. Furthermore, research continues to expand the rituals' effects to the warriors of other Legions, and even to favored mortal inhabitants of the Illuminated Empire. The promise of true immortality would be a recruiting tool like no other.

Access to the Halls is strictly restricted, for they would be one of the primary targets for any enemy of the Illuminated Empire. Apart from the Sorcerers, Apothecaries and Dark Mechanicum adepts and thralls who work there (and, of course, the patients themselves), visitors must leave all weaponry behind, and those possessed of psychic powers must submit themselves to a minor rite that temporarily suppress these abilities (the rite can easily be overpowered by any soul with more than a spark of psychic potential, but doing so is immediately detected). Security is ensured by an entire company of Thousand Sons, who have had to use their skills several times to put down failed attempts at resurrection. In most cases, they were able to capture the subject alive, but on a few occasions, execution was the only way.

 **The Stellar Spire of the Seekers**

During the Great Crusade, the Thousand Sons' psychically capable members were spread among the Cults, organizations dedicated to perfecting the branch of the Art on which they were focused. Much as changed since then, but the Cults remain a powerful force within the Legion, and the Corvidae, whose talents lie in precognition and divination of all kinds, seem like they will be one of the guiding hands of the Illuminated Empire. After all, it was the Magister Templi of the Cult, Ahriman, who led the Rubric that saved us all, and the other Corvidae are determined to follow in his footsteps. The rebellion against the False Emperor saw their powers of divination dwindle as the future was shrouded in darkness by the actions of the Gods and the False Emperor, but now they – we, for though I am no longer their leader, I still count myself as Corvidae – are ascendant again.

The Exalted Sorcerers of the Corvidae have raised a great tower of gleaming crystal, where they can work together to decipher the myriad portents offered by Sortiarius and interpret them for the good of the Empire. From atop a hundred observatory platforms, they peer into the future and the motion of the cosmic spheres. In order for their vision to be as clear as possible, the Stellar Spire stands on the opposite side of the planet from the Nameless City, to avoid being blinded by the soul-fire of Magnus. So great is the Crimson King's power that his mere presence distorts the threads of possibility. The Spire's enchantments ensure that, even when the shifting geography of Sortiarius moves the Tower of the Cyclops, the Spire will always be on the opposite side.

It is also from the Stellar Spire that the Order of Blindness, the group within the Fifteenth Legion dedicated to spying, infiltration and sabotage that I once led, now operates. Destroyed by the fall of Prospero, the Order has been rebuilt to serve as the Illuminated Empire's intelligence arm. Under the guidance of the Corvidae seers, mortal agents are dispatched throughout the Eye of Terror. They find those who would oppose the Illuminated Empire and pave the way for our conquering hosts. Warriors of the Alpha Legion have lent their skills to the Order as well, with several warlords of the Twentieth offering their networks of contacts embedded deep within the Imperium as proof of their loyalty upon joining the Illuminated Empire. Through them and the efforts of Exalted Sorcerers able to cast their minds outside the Eye and make contact with those within the Imperium who reject the tyranny of the False Emperor's cruel regime, the Illuminated Empire has built an extensive network of spies within the kingdom we helped built.

It was the Order of Blindness that helped prepare the aetheric conditions that allowed Ahriman and Bile to send their "Gift" to the Segmentum Tempestus, in preparation for the Black Crusade. Within the Stellar Spire, the Arch-Sorcerer led his brethren in the ritual that created a construct able to cross the unimaginable distance between the Planet of the Sorcerers and the area prepared by our agents in the Segmentum, where it created the first of a new breed of infiltrators and servants. The operatives of the Order know of several ways out of the Eye of Terror, but none of them are as large as the Cadian Gate : only a few souls at a time may pass through these lesser passages, and at great cost each time. It is the task of another order to assemble a map of known Warp routes within and leading outside the Eye, a task made much more complex by the Storm's ever-changing nature. Several of the Corvidae are dedicated to studying the ebb and flow of the Empyrean in order to predict where and when such passages may form, and even with the power of the Rubric flowing through their minds, their predictions are far from being always accurate.

 **The Sword in the Stone**

Daemon weapons are hardly uncommon on Sortiarius, but not all of them are equal in their power – though all of them, without exception, are at least as dangerous to their wielder as to his enemies. Warriors and champions of Chaos seek such weapons, convinced that their will is strong enough to master them or, in some cases, dragged toward them by the pull of the Neverborn within. And while most such weapons in the Illuminated Empire were crafted by the Fifteenth Legion, there are many that are far more ancients, legacies of empires and civilizations that explored the depths of sorcery before being destroyed. The Sword in the Stone is one such weapon.

Embedded blade-first into a block of basalt several kilometers large, the Sword is of a unique and alien design. Two parallel blades emerge from its pommel, into which is encrusted a crimson jewel that glows with an inner, pulsing light akin to a heartbeat. What the tip of the blade looks like is unknown, as since the Sword was discovered during the Plague War, no one has been able to pull the Sword out and wield it. The hilt of the Sword repels all attempts at psychically wedging it free, and all who have taken it in their hands have been confronted with the wrath of the daemon inside.

The daemon bound within the Sword is one of immense power, though the Sorcerers who study it from a distance have been unable to estimate its origins, or to which court of Chaos it belongs. Searching for clues in ancient records has been fruitless, and every daemon summoned and made to answer truthfully knew nothing of it either. Yet the Sword's power pulses with every beat of its jewel-light, a beacon that has drawn thousands to risk everything to make the weapon their own.

But no matter whose hand clasps around the hilt – be they humans, mutants, Astartes or Sorcerer – the result is always the same. There is pain, and a moment of shock, followed by either panic or rage – and then nothing, as the body is engulfed in an arc of crimson lightning that blinds all senses, be they natural, mechanical or daemonic. When visibility returns, there is no trace of the one who tried to claim the blade, apart from bones that can be identified as belonging to that individual. Such bones litter the area around the Sword in such numbers that crushing them underfoot is necessary to reach the Sword itself. Small Neverborn dwell amidst the bones, gnawing upon them and drawing sustenance from the sparks of the Sword's power and memories that linger in them still.

All efforts to dissuade these would-be claimants have failed : walls built by Fourth Legion ingenuity collapse overnight, and sentinels fall for the most pathetic attempts at sneaking by. It is believed that the daemon bound within the blade actively affects its surroundings to cause this, in order to feast on the souls of those who try to claim the weapon. Since isolation hasn't worked, we have instead decided to try and at least control access to the Sword. A group of Legion warriors, soul-bound _never_ to try to claim the Sword for themselves, are responsible for testing the worth of those who want to make an attempt. This approach as worked better than total confinement.

A few cults of humans and mutants have formed around the Sword, worshipping the daemon within it. Their mad prophets claim that one day, a worthy soul shall come, and use the Sword to bring about the end of the False Emperor's greatest lie. Details about that soul's identity, or which of the Emperor's many lies is "greatest", are a matter of furious debate among these cults, and they regularly water the basalt with their blood as a result of these disaccords. These cults have a hundred names and more for the Sword and the creature inside it, and a few Sorcerers study their beliefs, searching for a common thread – signs that they may genuinely be affected by the Sword rather than just another example of Mankind's sad tendency to pray to _anything_ of power.

 **The Forbidden Window**

Far from any settlement on Sortiarius, accessible only after a trek through a desert which counts a grain of sand for every lie ever spoken by a sentient being, lies a ruined city surrounded by a blasted plain. Teleportation to that city is impossible, and its existence was only discovered when a time-lost son of Magnus emerged from the desert, driven half-mad by thirst, hunger and isolation. No one could recognize him or the markings on his armor, yet it was clear that the blood of the Crimson King flowed through his veins. In his delirium, he spoke of the ruined city beyond the desert, and of the "forbidden window" that laid at its heart. Despite the best care of the Pavoni, he soon slipped into a deep coma from which he has yet to awaken.

The first expeditions sent to investigate his last words failed, as the mortals succumbed to the endless desert. Eventually, a group of Thousand Sons grew curious enough to try finding the city themselves, and they managed to cross the desert – though one of them claims it took them a hundred years, while another believes the trek lasted "only" a mere six years. Such temporal distortion is hardly uncommon on Sortiarius, but what is stranger is that all members of the expedition had experienced the trek alone, separated from their brethren, trapped in a trance-like state that had ended when they had all reached the edge of the plains around the city – at the exact same time.

The city shows signs of having been the theater of a grand battle, though the details of the weapons used were obscured by the passage of untold centuries. The buildings appear to be from one of Humanity's more civilized period, as their ruins still have several stories and there are remains of rusted machinery in the streets and inside the buildings, though not even the Dark Mechanicum has been able to identify them due to their level of decomposition. The Thousand Sons explored the city for seven days, seeking the "forbidden window" that the comatose warrior had described. Finally they found it, within the top floor of a precariously standing building.

Impossibly, despite the devastation visited upon the rest of the city, a single window panel remained intact on that level. Seemingly made of simple glass, what can be seen through it is not the ruined city, but a vibrant and living one, on the shores of a vast ocean. The details of the city correspond to those of the ruins, and the city has been positively identified to be one of Old Earth's own cities, shown in the window as it stood several tens of thousands of years ago, back when Mankind's homeworld still had vast bodies of water on its surface. Even the sounds of the city can be heard by applying one's ear against the glass, though the reverse doesn't appear to be true.

For years now, a coven of Sorcerers, led by the Exalted Sorcerer Naratt, one of the members of Ahriman's cabal, have been trying to break through the window – to reach Terra's distant past. It was Naratt who led the expedition through the desert, and who discovered the window. Since then, he has grown obsessed with it, refusing to abandon his research to join the defense of the Planet of the Sorcerers during both the Plague War and the assault of the Slaaneshi Host. What he intends to do if he succeeds is unknown. Time travel is hardly uncommon in the Eye, and all who have tried to use it to change the past have met tragic and terrible ends.

Naratt has drawn a small group of Dark Mechanicum adepts and psykers to study the window and perform temporal experiments in the city. While they have made no progress toward their ultimate goal, they _have_ stumbled upon interesting applications of their research. Devices that can accelerate or slow one's personal flow of time, and weapons that can unleash mayhem upon the fourth dimension, striking at an enemy before the battle began and making them suffer the injury in the present. Some of these devices have been brought to the rest of Sortiarius by envoys of Naratt, who seek to trade them for supplies in order for the research to continue.

 **Kazukhur, the Endless Arena**

We Astartes are killers. That is the simple truth, however unwelcome or undignified it might be. We were all crafted by the Emperor to serve as weapons of conquest, to carve out the galaxy into an empire over which He intended to rule for all eternity. We may strive to become something more, like the Ultramarines, who Guilliman tried to make rulers and bureaucrats, and we of the Thousand Sons, who seek to become scholars and teachers, elevating Humanity rather than grinding it under our heel. Yet violence remains bred in our bones, in our very blood and soul. We _need_ war, conflict, violence, for that is what we were made for. The Illuminated Empire has no shortage of enemies, from the Traitor Legions warbands that do not acknowledge our superiority to the mindless hosts of Neverborn roaming the Eye of Terror. But since the defeat of the Slaaneshi Host, Sortiarius itself has been, for the most part, as peaceful as any world in the Eye can ever hope to be.

Thus was created Kazukhur, to provide an outlet for the bloodlust of the thousands of Astartes who have heeded the call of the Illuminated Empire and gathered under our banner. No one really knows how it started – some claim it began as a fighting pit for the World Eaters, while others say it was built by the Thousand Sons to test the skills of our mutant armies. Regardless of the truth, Kazukhur is now a gigantic coliseum, where the violence never stops. The arena's architecture can change by itself, going from a single massive sand battlefield where armies of hundreds can clash to a series of smaller pits where Astartes champions confront hideous mutated beasts and Greater Daemons are made to fight against one another under the cheers of tens of thousands of spectators.

The sons of Angron make up most of Kazukhur's transhuman audience, the Nails in their skulls forcing them to seek release through the proxy violence of the arenas, but they are far from the only ones. Warriors from every warband sworn to the Illuminated Empire flock to Kazukhur, to witness or participate into the fights. Astartes participation is rare and must be earned, as while the Illuminated Empire has plenty of mortal lives to spend, Space Marines are much more valuable. The Lord of the Arena, a warrior clad in unpainted Terminator warplate without any Legion markings, makes the final decision to grant any Space Marine the right to fight in the Arena.

The origins of the Lord of the Arena are just as shrouded in mystery as that of the Arena itself, and this is quite surprising to the Thousand Sons. Some believe that Kazukhur was not actually _built_ by anyone, but manifested itself out of the suppressed bloodlust of thousands of Chaos Marines. After all, in the Eye of Terror, one's wish can easily be granted – but it always comes with a hidden cost. In the case of the Arena, it is believed that this cost is the fact that Kazukhur undeniably exists under the aegis of Khorne, the Blood God of War and Slaughter. Giving such a beachhead to a Power rivalling that with which the Thousand Sons are aligned may one day come back to haunt us.

As a more direct and obvious consequence of the Arena's bloodshed, those Thousand Sons who work within it must close their minds to the suffering of the combatants, lest they be driven mad by it. Most of them are Pavoni healers who use their powers to save valuable fighters, but a few Corvidae seek revelation in the patterns of spilled blood as well. Both groups are given a wide berth by the rest of the audience. Gladiators see the presence of a "Blood-Watcher" during one of their battle as a good omen, and obviously, the healers are granted the utmost respect, just in case.

 **The Feathered Kingdoms**

When we first arrived on Sortiarius, what feels like an eternity ago, we were surprised to find that the world was not devoid of intelligent life. Entire clans of mutants lived on the Planet of the Sorcerers, and their most ancient legends told them of us, the angels of the One-Eyed King. It was quite a disturbing discovery when we found out that these mutants were the descendants of the Prosperine survivors we had brought along with us, somehow brought into our present from the future, uncountable generations later. The mutations afflicting these clans take many forms, but a few are relatively stable, creating entire sub-species distinct from baseline Humanity. Humanoids with goat heads are common, showing greater strength and resilience in return for diminished intellect. Yet the most potent of these variants, and the one that has carved a place for itself on Sortiarius, is that of the Tzaangor : blue-skinned, beaked humanoids with a cruel intellect.

Devoted worshippers of Tzeentch, the Great Mutator, the Tzaangor have built the Feathered Kingdoms on Sortiarius : a veritable empire, with its own culture and societal order, as well as a functional approach to sorcery and rituals. The Kingdoms are a coalition of domains, each ruled by a Tzaangor Overlord. The exact number of these domains is unknown, and vary constantly, but there are millions of Tzaangor within the Feathered Kingdoms – possibly a lot more. They have built cities, with great palaces for their leaders, tombs for their fallen champions, and temples dedicated to the uncounted visages of Tzeentch. Their architecture and artistry is far above that which we would typically expect from mutants, let alone beastmen.

Ambition is the core pillar of Tzaangor society in the Feathered Kingdoms : all Tzaangor hunger for power, for glory, for position over their brethren. Most of all, they crave the favor of Tzeentch, who they believe created them. That belief is lent credence by one particular ritual in the possession of the Tzaangor Shamans, capable of transforming a human being into a Tzaangor. The process is quite traumatic, wiping out most of the subject's former identity in the process – though traces linger, influencing the skills and disposition of the new Tzaangor. In the Kingdoms at least, however, most Tzaangor are born rather than transformed, as these mutants breed true.

Worship of Tzeentch causes the Feathered Kingdoms to be a hotbed of intrigue and warfare, as Tzaangor compete with one another endlessly. Shamans wield great power in their society, combining the functions of sorcerers and priests of the Changing God. Yet none of them may lead the Tzaangor, by ancient tradition : instead they serve as advisors to the Overlords, Tzaangor who have proven their worth in battle and received the blessings of Tzeentch.

The Tzaangor regard the Thousand Sons as the chosen servants of Tzeentch, and they obey our commands as if they came from the Changing God himself. Several of the Exalted Sorcerers who have taken part in the Illuminated Empire's expansion have raised armies from the Feathered Kingdoms, for the Tzaangor make for excellent soldiers, combining the strength and ferocity of mutant hordes with cunning and discipline forged in the endless feuds opposing the factions of their empire. Shamans are also competent warlocks, and when taught, they absorb knowledge with a hunger matched only by the most dedicated human magi.

Astartes from other Legions are regarded with suspicion within the Feathered Kingdoms. The Tzaangor know of the animosity driving the Great Game of Chaos, and they think any transhuman not of Magnus' gene-line is a potential servant of their own god's enemies. Those who have dedicated themselves to mastery of sorcery are granted respect, though rarely on the same level as that reserved to the Thousand Sons (and the Exalted Sorcerers in particular, who are regarded as nothing less than demigods). While a single Tzaangor is no threat to a Legionary, they are more than able of working together to take down entire squads of careless Astartes.

 **The Fortress of Iron**

After the Plague War, Magnus journeyed to Medrengard, to negotiate an alliance with his brother Perturabo. None but the two Primarchs know what passed between them, but when Magnus returned to strike down Fulgrim at his moment of triumph, Perturabo accompanied him, having made his choice to stand with the Illuminated Empire as one of its Lords. In the aftermath of the Slaaneshi War and the consolidation of the alliance between the Fourth and Fifteenth Legions, Magnus offered his brother the right to build a stronghold of his own on Sortiarius, a place that would belong to the Iron Warriors only. Ever keen to exert one of his greatest skill, Perturabo took his brother's offer, and over the course of seven days, he built the Fortress of Iron.

A pale reflection of the Fortress of Hate, Perturabo's great stronghold on Medrengard, the Fortress is nevertheless an imposing sight. It is surrounded by massive walls, covered in gun emplacements and other defenses, and projects a psychic aura of dread. Big as a hive-city, it serves as the headquarters of the Iron Warriors who accompanied their lord to the Planet of the Sorcerers and their mortal thralls. It is there that the Lord of Iron dwells when he is on Sortiarius, but not conferring with his brother in the Tower of the Cyclops. The only Thousand Son ever allowed within is Ignis, Master of Ruin, who was first sent to Medrengard during the Plague War. Since his departure with the Black Crusade, no other outsider has passed through the Titan-sized gates.

Kyodomor Forrix is Castellant of the Fortress of Iron, having been granted dominion over it while his own master, the being known only as the Warsmith, returned to Medrengard to keep the other Warsmiths under control in Perturabo's absence. Forrix often serves as his Primarch's proxy in gatherings of the Illuminated Empire's council. He is wise in ways that often eludes us sons of Magnus, and his skill at logistics is truly remarkable – in many ways, he is single-handedly responsible for managing the expansion of the Illuminated Empire since his arrival.

A river of molten iron flows from the depths of the Fortress, and thousands of Dark Mechanicum's servitors work to harvest it, turning it into weapons and armor for the Fourth Legion. This river comes from where Perturabo struck the earth of Sortiarius with his warhammer, _Forgebreaker_ , and it was from its metal that he crafted the Fortress, using his great power and connection to all metals to shape it according to his will. This iron possesses strange properties, which are more pronounced the closest from the source it is taken, resulting in fierce competition for position among the Dark Mechanicum. What these properties may be when the iron is taken directly from the source is a subject of much speculation, and the Iron Warriors haven't been forthcoming with explanations.

As a result of the iron river, an entire city has come into existence around the Fortress of Iron – though even the closest forges keep a respecting distance away from the walls, lest they be obliterated by its guns for their insolence. The fruit of their labors is coveted by the mutant tribes of Sortiarius, who come from far away to trade captured slaves and rare resources in exchange for weapons and armor of solid iron. This trade has made the city prosperous, and a location where all manners of resources can be found if you search long enough. Sometimes, the mutant tribes seek to take what they want rather than trade for it, but the Dark Mechanicum factions have a solid pact of mutual aid in such circumstances, and all such plunderers have been annihilated, the survivors enslaved to work in the forges. None of these tribes, however, have ever tried to attack the Fortress of Iron. Even the dumbest of beastmen know better than to try the defenses of the Iron Warriors.

 **The Temple of the Faceless**

During the Plague War, the Fifteenth Legion was pressed hard by Mortarion's armies. To protect the newly rekindled flame of hope, the sons of Magnus had to resort to any means necessary in order to bolster the ranks of our own forces. None contributed more to our cause during that time than Ahriman, even as he led the expedition to bring the Dark Mechanicum lords of Artek-Ker to our side. Throughout the Imperium's present and future, pieces of his awareness created groups of followers ready and willing to be brought to Sortiarius to fight at our side. Our best attempt at cataloguing these groups can be found in the private libraries of the Legion, but few survived the Plague War, such was the scale of the Death Guard's onslaught.

The survivors banded together in the aftermath, and built the Temple of the Faceless in a mountain range some distance from Ahriman's own Silver Tower, though the gorge leading to the entrance cannot be seen from the Arch-Sorcerer's spire. They dwell within that temple, worshipping a towering, faceless idol of Ahriman. Some are humans, other mutants, some come from Imperial worlds and other from planets that have never beholden the sight of the aquila. But all are united in their devotion to the Arch-Sorcerer, despite the fact that none of them have ever seen our brother in person. They believe that they have been chosen, taken from their mundane previous lives and elevated to serve in the realm of their faceless god. For now, they are content to remain in seclusion, cataloguing their collective knowledge and waiting for the day they are once more called upon.

Powerful daemonhosts created from the bodies of heroes, known as the Honored Dead, guard the inside of the temple. The priests know the secret of creating these creatures, which are bound to obey them and are most powerful guardians. There is a treasure trove of arcane knowledge to be found within the temple, written down by the magi of a dozen worlds putting together the knowledge handed down to them by the fragments of Ahriman's mind. The total population of the community within the temple is estimated to be around three hundred, all of them veterans of the Plague War and whatever circumstances led them to be taken to Sortiarius. During the Slaaneshi War, a warband of Noise Marines broke through the gates of the temple and went inside. Their cacophony was silenced within moments, and they were never seen again.

All within the temple must wear blank, featureless masks at all times. Visitors are handed appropriate masks at the entrance, and the temple's keepers will react violently if one tries to force through without wearing one. Astartes who wear their helmets are exempt from this rule, but removing it once inside and not _immediately_ putting a mask (before anyone else can so much as glimpse as your features) will turn the guardians of the temple hostile, and they will chase the warrior out, and kill him if he tries to remain. Humans who enter the temple without a mask or remove theirs will be set upon with lethal intent immediately, however.

As I wrote this guide, I have learned that in the last few months, the temple has come under attack by packs of feral, mindless daemons. These creatures have attacked pilgrims trying to reach the temple, and even broken inside on one occasion, before being defeated by the temple's defenders. The priests have called for help in investigating the source of these attacks, in order to put an end to them. Most Thousand Sons find the temple disheartening, for all know Ahriman does not desire the faith of these creatures. Yet there is undoubtedly power in that cult, and it would be a waste to let them be destroyed by these savage Neverborn. What, if anything, Ahriman himself intend for his worshippers is unknown, but I do not doubt he _does_ have a use for them in mind.

 **The Valley of Memories**

The rebellion of the Warmaster, known to those of the Imperium allowed to learn of its existence as the Horus Heresy, was a confluence of events that shaped the destiny of the entire galaxy. Such was the confusion, the sheer instability of fate, that the Corvidae arts gradually lost their potency in the lead-up to Horus' betrayal. Trillions of lives were involved, and while many champions and generals were mere humans, none can deny that, at its core, the rebellion was a matter of Legiones Astartes. No single soul knows the full truth of the Heresy – but perhaps the Valley can change this.

Amidst mountains wracked in permanent storms that prevent approach by air is a single path leading to the Valley of Memories. After around a kilometer of straight path, the Valley branches into two paths, which themselves branch out later, and so on. If there is an end to these paths, no one has yet found it. Both sides of these paths are lined with statues of warriors of the Heresy who died to betrayal. These statues are over a hundred meters in height, carved of grey stone, and display a staggering level of details. When walking through the Valley, they appear to turn to constantly face intruders – even if there are several visitors within sight of each other, all will see the statues as facing them and only them.

Touching one of the statue, either with a bare hand or an armored gauntlet, induces a life-like vision of the battle in which the depicted warrior perished. The vision takes place from the point of view of the dead warrior, and ends with his demise. Among the key moments of the Heresy that can be relived within the Valley are the Isstvan Atrocity and Massacre, the Battle of Calth, the Razing of Prospero, the Great Slaughter of Beta-Garmon, and many, many more. Dozens of scholars make the journey to the Valley, hoping to compile a complete history of the rebellion, but their work is limited by the fact that only Space Marines can use the statues' properties. Even those of these scholars who are Astartes themselves must be careful, as the visions are _extremely_ realistic, and repeated feelings of death can have lasting consequences – too many visions can even kill, as willpower is ground down until the mind cannot separate truth from memory.

The Valley is acknowledged as neutral ground by everyone on Sortiarius – no blood may be shed within it, no violence intended. It is there that warlords from rival warbands met to solve their differences before both joining the Illuminated Empire. The gaze of the statues is enough to quieten even the Nails of the Twelfth Legion – indeed, dozens of sons of Angron can be found within the Valley at all times, simply walking among the statues, cherishing a brief moment of blessed release.

A bearded old man sits at the entrance of the Valley, clad in a dirty cloak and with a long beard. He looks mortal, with the same kind of face one would expect on a prophet coming down from a mountain with newfound enlightenment and a lot of bad news to impart upon the wicked. All who want to enter the Valley must present themselves to him, give him their name, and answer the one question he asks them truthfully (the question changes with each visit). Those who do not do this, or answer falsely, are struck by lightning the moment they enter the Valley – not immediately lethal for one of the Legions, but more bolts will come as long as the intruder does not step back out of the forbidden area. Similar fates have befallen all who tried to attack the old man. As one might expect, there is a lot of speculation as to his nature and identity.

There are rumors that actions taken in the visions can actually change history : one may save a doomed warrior, or slay a hated foe, and this would become the new accepted history. Of course, if these are anything more than wild speculation, we have no way of knowing for certain.

 **The Laboratories of the Primogenitor**

Among the warriors from other Legions that have joined the Illuminated Empire, few if any are as infamous as Fabius Bile, former Chief Apothecary of the Emperor's Children. Bile's legend is one of mad genius, forbidden pursuits and blasphemous experiments – and all of that was _before_ the Third Legion declared for Horus and purged its own at Isstvan III. In many ways, Bile is responsible for the descent of the sons of Fulgrim into perversion and hedonism. It was he who created the Noise Marines, he who introduced the Legion to genetic perversions, he who first experimented on the Emperor's own design of the Legiones Astartes, and the Apothecaries who enabled the dramatic degeneration of the Emperor's Children learned their craft at his feet.

Yet according to the man himself, when Terra burned and his brothers indulged their monstrous lusts upon a population abandoned by Dorn, Bile had something of an epiphany. He renounced his own self-indulgence and fled the battlefields, returning to his Legion in the Eye of Terror after the Battle of Skalathrax to try and use it in his quest of human transcendence. The return of Fulgrim put an end to his ambitions, and he joined the Illuminated Empire, offering his dark lore and knowledge of the Third Legion in exchange for being accepted among us. In Magnus' absence, Ahriman accepted the offer, and the Crimson King did not rescind it when he came back from Medrengard. Since then, Bile has become a lord of the Illuminated Empire, his loyalty proven when he fought his own Legion at the foot of the Pyramid, when all hope seemed lost and defeat inevitable. For this reason, the Laboratories are tolerated by the Thousand Sons – but very few of us ever visit.

The Consortium, a group of Apothecaries from all Legions (both renegade and loyalist) and Dark Mechanicum bio-magi and gene-smiths who follow Bile's intellectual leadership, have built the Laboratories in the Manflayer's name. They are centred around Bile's own lair, where none have dared enter since Bile departed Sortiarius along the Black Crusade. It is there that Ahriman and Bile worked together to create the Warp-touched, self-replicating breed of infiltrators that was sent to the Segmentum Tempestus. The aether around the area still echoes with the power of the rituals that were required to make that great work possible. The very air bleeds with potential through the cracks leftover, reshaping flesh and planting terrible ideas into the minds of the Consortium.

The Laboratories are surrounded by shanty towns built by various breeds of mutants, who offer a twisted form of worship to the "Pater Mutatis", as they call Bile. Gland-Hounds, created by Bile to hunt down Space Marines and bring their organs to him, rule over these wretches, using both the strength and cunning granted to them by their creator and the prestige of their direct tie to him. According to the Clonelord, they are the first iteration of his "New Humanity", a breed of gene-forged beings he intends to replace baseline Mankind and usher in a new empire, freed of the fear of the xenos and the tyranny of the Gods. Certainly these creatures display great strength and resilience, and their souls burn bright to the second sight of Sorcerers.

To the surprise of the Consortium's own members, it appears that the clones created by their vats have become fertile, perhaps thanks to Sortiarius' mutagenic energies. This "natural" overcoming of one of cloning's most ancient and ingrained weaknesses was seen as a sign of how right Fabius Bile had been to turn from Fulgrim and join us.

Though Bile's dedication to the Illuminated Empire is unquestioned, his long-term goals are disquieting for many. No one _truly_ believes his New Men will ever completely replace Mankind, but those who pay heed to the whispers of daemons often think it would be for the best if the Laboratories never succeeded in their ultimate goal. Because of this, the Consortium has faced a string of acts of sabotage in the Primogenitor's absence, targeting its most promising experiments.

 **Ul'menelar, t** **he** **Keep** **of Endless Night**

It is said that, during the Great Crusade, our Primarch Magnus and the tormented being known as Night Haunter were as close as the latter ever got to any of his brothers. Regardless of the truth, when news reached Sortiarius that Konrad Curze had died willingly at the hands of a mortal Assassin, the Illuminated Empire opened its gates to those Night Lords who dwell within the Eye of Terror. Of the thousands of Eighth Legion warriors who survived the rebellion and the Scouring, only a minority ended up in the Eye – the others remain at large in the galaxy, and I do not doubt that they make the Imperium suffer for its sins against us all. Still, many of those who did end up in our collective purgatorial prison answered our call, and they gathered within Ul'menelar.

A pocket realm of sorts, Ul'menelar is the only place on Sortiarius that does not know the touch of any of the Nine Suns. This isn't due to any ceiling or illusion – the Nine Suns simply _don't appear_ in the skies of Ul'menelar. The collective wills of the Night Lords ensures that the city is kept in perpetual night, the heavens a fathomless black illuminated only by pulses of the Eye's great storms that are powerful enough to pierce through the cover of darkness. This endless night empowers those of Eighth Legion blood, granting Sorcerers greater power and increasing the potency of the gene-bred gifts of all sons of Konrad Curze.

The ruler of Ul'menelar is a Secondborn son of the Night Haunter, Vandred Anrathi, more commonly known as the Exalted. Since arriving to Sortiarius, the Exalted has risen to a leadership position among the Eighth Legion forces allied with the Illuminated Empire. Rather than a general, however, his rank is more that of a first among equals, as the Night Lords have become even more independent since the death of their Primarch. It was the Exalted who created Ul'menelar, offering something of great value to the seers of the Stellar Spire in exchange for their help in building this city of shadows. He is a cruel creature, possessed of both the inhuman appetites of a Neverborn and the cold, callous malevolence that the Night Lords used to bring entire Sectors to compliance.

Hundreds of Night Lords call Ul'menelar home – or at least a lair where they can return to lick their wounds, count the plunder of their raids and prepare for the next operation. The city's architecture is a mix between that of their destroyed homeworld of Nostramo and the horrors of Tsalgualsa, a hive-city where black metal, rockrete and flesh seamlessly merge with one another. Within this city live millions of thralls, their skin pale, their health poor and their minds and souls ravaged by terror until they are little more than living automatons, performing their appointed tasks within the Keep's great industry without any thought of rebellion or escape. They mine the great deposits of adamantium, said to be shards of Nostramo dragged through the Warp by the pull of Ul'menelar, and forge it for the use of the Illuminated Empire. The lower one goes, the weaker the hold of the Night Lords on their kingdom, as the number of shadow-clad daemons increases. Night Lords descend there to hunt, either the Neverborn or the tribes of exiles that huddle in the dark, holding back their deaths with sharp knives and flickering torches.

The lowest levels of the keep are lost to deep waters, in which dwell aquatic predators born of Mankind's oldest memories and fears of the depths. At the edge of these waters gather clans of black-eyed men and women descended from Nostraman stock, who whispers tales of the greater beasts slumbering at the depths' very bottom – and of the day they shall rise, to punish the Exalted and all his followers for some unknown and terrible crime. For all that these tribes are farthest from the strongholds of the Night Lords, it is from them that most warbands take the children they use to replenish their ranks, for they have proven their strength simply by surviving in such a place.

 **The Errant Legio**

Even in the Eye of Terror, where Greater Daemons walk the surface of every world and the laws of physics do not prevent the growth of city-sized leviathans, the Titan Legions of the Mechanicum remain one of the greatest military strengths there is. Ever a fractious lot, the Legios' unity was forever shattered in the wake of Horus' defeat at Terra, and their might had already been bled in the Great Slaughter, where the Titandeath claimed thousands of Titans and Knights. Now those princeps of the renegade Legio who have retained their sanity and not succumbed to the hungers of their Chaos Titans are kings of their domains, ruling over dark forge-worlds with an adamantium fist. Entire cultures exist for the sole purpose of producing the massive amount of resources required to keep the god-engines functionning, their priests warning of terrible retribution should the tribute stop. Sortiarius itself is home to a handful of Titans, remnants of Prospero's glory that were brought over or lone errant machines drawn to the power of the Planet of the Sorcerers. But in the deserts, where storms of fire and ice prevent all but the smallest life from surviving, walks the Errant Legio.

This Legio is comprised of an estimated twenty to thirty god-engines (the exact number may actually vary from sighting to sighting). Their heraldry has been erased by the elements, and all attempts to contact them by vox or telepathy have failed. These Titans march without pause, never needing repair or refuelling, led by a God-Machine whose size would indicate it belongs to the glorious ranks of the Imperator-class. Perhaps they wander the deserts, or perhaps the deserts follow them. In truth, we do not even know whether these Titans belong to a Legio that turned its back on the False Emperor. Chaos Titans are usually rather easily distinguished from their loyalist counterparts, but the Errant Legio is constantly shrouded in storms that defy even the most powerful auspexes. It's entirely possible that the Errant Legio remained loyal to Terra, but was lost to the Warp during some catastrophic accident and ended up on the Planet of the Sorcerers.

Those who fear this possibility follow the Legio from a safe distance, tracking its movements, trying to determine its pattern. This group is mostly comprised of Dark Mechanicum adepts, envoys from Titan Legio that followed the Warmaster and want to keep an eye on possible rivals, and a handful of Thousand Sons who keep trying to make contact with the intelligence directing the Titans, hoping to turn their might to the service of the Illuminated Empire. The unofficial head of this group is an arch-heretek who calls itself the Unfolded Ninth. A creature of milk-white metal and blood-red robes, the Unfolded Ninth speaks in a chorus of voices, all of them belonging to children he murdered. He follows the Errant Legio aboard a sand-crawler the size of an Ordinatus-class warmachine and catalogues every interaction with the Legio.

From time to time, the Legio's wandering will bring it toward more civilized areas. Some of the settlements encountered by the Errant Legio are utterly annihilated, while it passes others by peacefully – as long as the inhabitants don't attempt to attack the Titans. Any attack will be answered with overwhelming strength. A tactic employed during the Plague War was to bait warbands of the Plague Legion to follow "fleeing" forces toward the Errant Legio. Upon seeing the Titans, the followers of Nurgle would open fire, thinking they had been drawn into an ambush, and be annihilated as the full might of the Titan host was revealed. Yet using this tactic was dangerous, as there was always the risk that the Legio would open fire on the Thousand Sons forces simply for drawing near – the exact "safe distance" is constantly changing, something for which the hosts of mutants and skitarii warriors accompanying the Unfolded Ninth's caravan pay the price regularly.

Some within the Illuminated Empire say that the Errant Legio should be destroyed on principle; that we Exalted Sorcerers should gather our strength and strike at them with our full eldritch might, until the Titans are either bound to our cause or reduced to slag. And it may yet come to this one day, but for now, we have more pressing concerns, as the Errant Legio remains far from any major center on Sortiarius.

* * *

AN : Well, that was fun to write.

We will go back to our regular programming soon, but I really wanted to do this. This chapter is ... well, I guess the best way to describe it would be that it's akin to a RPG-module ? Something to inspire people to write their own stories. A daemon world is, well, a _world_ , with hundreds, thousands of interesting locations, and Sortiarius is capital of the Illuminated Empire, homeworld of the Thousand Sons. The novel _The Crimson King_ gave us a glimpse at the many wonders of the Planet of the Sorcerers, and this chapter gave me the opportunity to revisit stuff that I had already written about the planet. See if you can identify all the references to previous chapters !

In this chapter, I called the Planet of the Sorcerers Sortiar **i** us, instead of Sortiarus as I did before. The former is the correct, canon name. I am _not_ going back through all the previous chapters, but I thought deliberately continuing writing it wrong would be bad.

A few of these locations were inspired by readers suggestions from spacebattles. Thanks, guys !

Which one of these was your favorite ? Do you have any idea for one of your own ? Please let me know in your reviews.

Now, back to _The Hunt for Cypher._ The next chapter of this story should come out before the Hunt, since it's much, much shorter, but progress is ongoing on the next installment of the Roboutian Heresy, don't worry. Nemris recently sent me the first picture I asked him, and it's _brilliant._

Zahariel out.


	64. Godswrath

The return of Iskandar Khayon to Drol Kheir was every bit as undignified as his departure had been. This time, instead of falling into a chasm leading to the planet's underground Maze, he emerged from a rent into the air, falling half a dozen meters before crashing down onto a pile of bodies. His armor was dented and rent, frost and slime clinging to the damaged, smoking parts. The tear in reality closed behind him with a repugnant sound that sounded entirely too much like a scream of pain, reluctance and thwarted hatred. Fitting, considering what Khayon had left behind.

The Children of Ahriman had come for him, just after his brother had delivered his warning. This time, they had not even tried to hide what they were, like they had when they had disguised themselves as wolves before he met the Trinity. They had come for him in their true, infinitely varied aspects. There had been _so many_ of them … Horrors and nightmares from a hundred worlds and more, the legacy of Ahriman's shattered self. How many lives had his brother destroyed without even noticing, in his quest to preserve the dream of the Fifteenth Legion ? It was enough to make Khayon wonder if maybe, just maybe, Ahriman did not _deserve_ his current fate, no matter how terrible. It was not a pleasant thought, for he remembered all too well what he had seen when the Arch-Sorcerer had appeared before him, in the chamber where he had found Horus' soul-shard.

He had fought them with everything he had, with all the sorcerous lore, experience, and psychic power at his disposal. They had shattered the walls of the Crystal Labyrinth in their fight, destroyed structures that were all that remained of the dreams of a thousand dead civilizations. With the power of two Primarch soul-shards, he had battled on and on, and the echoes of this conflict had touched the souls of billions, creating entire mythologies as men and women tried to make sense of what they had seen in fevered dreams. On a thousand worlds, these confused prophets painted images of the black-clad lord and the host of horrors he fought. The lucky ones went unnoticed, but those whose work was discovered were soon dragged before the agents of the Throne, tortured for answers before being burned at the stake – though the _really_ unlucky ones were kept alive.

From one end of Tzeentch's realm to the other they had battled, and it was only occurring to Khayon now that the fact they hadn't come upon any of its other denizens may be a sign – though of _what_ , he did not know. Perhaps the Neverborn feared the combatants enough to flee from them, perhaps Ahriman had managed to arrange things so that he would have a _chance_ to escape … The Necromancer did not want to consider the other possibilities.

The Children _hated_ him, almost as much as they hated their unwitting creator. They hated the hope that the Trinity had invested in him, hated that he stood in the way of their dreams of endless torment and terrible glory. They had screamed their hatred at him as they fought, cursing him and shrieking all the horrors they would inflict upon Mankind, upon his brothers, upon his sister. They had mocked his service to the Fifteenth Legion, called him a pawn of Ruin, a child who had never grown up and would rather burn the entire Imperium rather than face his own sins. They had named him Arch-Renegade, told him that his name would be forever accursed among the Thousand Sons. They had screamed that he would walk among ashes and eat dust, alone amidst the dead.

Forever and ever, till the death of hope itself.

But he had not given in to their taunts, for he recognized them for what they were – desperate attempts by broken nightmares to provoke him, to make him drop his guard so that the Children could retake their lost advantage. Had Ahzek not somehow found a way to contact him just in time, they would have fallen upon him while he was casting the return spell, and they would have torn him apart. Instead … well, instead, he had won, though this certainly didn't feel like victory.

He had drawn his pursuers into a section of the Labyrinth that was built from the memories of betrayed hopes, and collapsed the gallery of infernal mirrors behind him as he escaped, trapping the Children in the illusory realms born of the delusions of failed heroes. It wouldn't hold them for long, but it had been enough for him to complete the Trinity's spell and return to Drol Kheir.

For several minutes, the Necromancer remained laying face down, his helmet buried in the mud. Then he twitched. His right hand was still holding onto the hilt of _Itzica_ , and he used the sword to push himself up before taking in the scene of desolation surrounding him.

He could see the ruins of the Slaaneshi Host's city in the distance – this was the heart of the battlefield where the Sons of Horus had met the Word Bearers and World Eaters. The city was still burning, and he was certain that these flames would never truly go out.

At his feet were bodies – so many bodies. Astartes clad in sea-green, arterial red, and black, bearing the iconography of three Legions, all united by death in a way they hadn't been since before the Primarchs had been found. The bodies laid where they had fallen, left unplundered and undesecrated. Iskandar hadn't been at Isstvan, but he figured this must be what the killing fields of the Massacre had looked like.

Ships hung in the sky, frozen in the void. He could see the scars of battle on the closest ones. By all rights, they should have fallen to the surface, crashing onto Drol Kheir in cataclysmic impacts, yet they remained locked in place, mirroring the graveyard on the planet's surface. As above, so below, thought the Necromancer.

And there was Gyre, emerging from the shadows between two mounds of corpses. The wolf that was not a wolf had suffered wounds that would have killed the animal she mimicked a dozen times over. Her flanks bore great rents, and half her skull was missing. As she drew near Khayon, these wounds faded away in smoke, her essence replenished as the link between her and the Necromancer reasserted itself and power flowed from the sorcerer to his familiar.

 _Master_ , she sent to Iskandar, the word pulsing with gratitude at the relief his presence brought her from her pain.

 _What happened ?_ He sent to the she-wolf.

 _Death. Death and fire and ruin._

 _Show me._

She showed him. Through their restored link, she showed him everything.

He saw Lilith vanish from the battlefield as he fell into the abyss. He heard the frustrated cry of Argel Tal at being denied the honor of slaying this most ancient and powerful daemon, and saw the Crimson Lord turn his baleful gaze upon Abaddon, who stood one-armed amidst a circle of dead Word Bearers, their blood dripping from the Talon of Horus. He saw Lucius and Khârn battling in the distance, fury versus skill, until the Eternal vanished in a flash of Warp-light, reclaimed by the Dark Prince before he could fall. He heard the Betrayer's scream of rage, shaking the very earth with his thwarted fury. He saw the Sons of Horus fight bravely, and fall, one by one.

He saw the Bound Angel battle the First Captain of the Sixteenth Legion, and it was a breathtaking sight to behold. The Talon of the Warmaster cut through infernal flesh, and claws forged in the deepest pits of the Warp rent Terminator armor. Transhuman and daemonic blood flowed, and where it hit the earth the shades of dead dreams manifested for a single eye-blink before vanishing forevermore. On and on they fought, until they were the only ones left to fight, and Abaddon was still smiling, even as his Legion died around him for the second and likely final time.

He saw Argel Tal towering above Abaddon's broken body, his infernal form bleeding from a hundred wounds inflicted by the Talon, his mighty wings reduced to tattered scraps of flesh clinging to the bone. All over the battlefield, the sons of Angron and Lorgar roared in victory, raising their weapons to the war-torn skies as the last of the Sixteenth Legion warriors perished. And then …

 _ **ARGEL TAL.**_

 _ **KHÂRN.**_

 _ **WHAT HAVE YOU DONE ?**_

The voice boomed across the battlefield, and every Word Bearer just _stopped_. Even the World Eaters – even Khârn – were dragged out of their frenzy by the voice. They recognized that voice, just like Khayon did. It was the voice of the Crimson King, the voice of the most psychically potent of all Primarchs, when he dropped the pretence of humanity and let his true nature shine.

' **Lord Magnus ...'** began Argel Tal, but before he could say another word there was a flash of blinding light, and then, just like that, he was _gone_. And so were the rest of his army. Every Word Bearer and World Eater still alive was gone, as was their fleet in orbit. The Crimson King had summoned them, and in the Eye of Terror, the will of Magnus was law for those who recognized him authority over them – and for many who did not.

The recollection ended, and Khayon found himself back into the present.

 _How long ago did all of that happen ?_ He asked. But Gyre could not answer that. She had survived the carnage by hiding in the shadows after Abaddon had fallen, and since the battle's end, she had merely … slept (though the word wasn't the correct one, it would do for now).

Khayon walked through the battlefield, his wolf at his side, until he found Abaddon's body. The eyes of the Chthonian were closed. In death, he was very much the picture of an old barbarian-king, finally laid down to rest with his arms and armor.

He fell on his knees before the corpse of the warlord _he_ had brought to Drol Kheir, surrounded by the dead of the Legion he had thought to add to the Illuminated Empire, and guilt washed over him. Above, the heavens started to rumble, terrible energies gathering amidst the silent graveyard of ships, and Gyre whimpered. The Dark Gods knew he was here now. By returning to the Eye, he had exposed himself to their gaze once more, and they knew that he had betrayed another empire.

 _They could still stop me,_ he thought. _This is their realm. They don't have to play by the rules of the Materium here. If they really wanted to stop me … They could smite me, right here, right now._

 _I am only doing this because I am allowed to. Because the Gods are indecisive, even when presented with the chance for ultimate victory. Because they crave conflict. Or because …_

… _because they don't think I can win. It amuses them to watch me struggle. They have already won. They won the moment we completed the Rubric and rewrote our own fate._

 _I stand alone. What can I do against them ? Against the Illuminated Empire, its thousands of warriors, its Sorcerers, its hosts of the Lost and the Damned ?_

 _What can I do ?_

 _Well … Have you forgotten, my lords ?_

 _Have you forgotten where I stand ?_

 _Have you forgotten who I am ?_

'I am Iskandar Khayon !' he shouted to the heavens, feeling the weight of the Gods' glare. Words surged through his mind, and he masked them by screaming other ones : 'I am Khayon the Black ! I fought against the Wolves as they burned my world, and survived to see it die from its wounds ! I battled on the walls of the Imperial Palace, side by side with the sons of Angron ! I stood by Ahriman's side as he cast the Rubric ! I defied Mortarion, and walked away ! I broke the laws of life and death, and turned my back on everything I cherished ! I ! AM ! THE _NECROMANCER !'_

He roared, in a mix of defiance and grief, and stood. He raised up _Itzica_ in both hands, holding it aloft. Far above him, the storm erupted, eldritch lightning raging across black clouds. One such arc of energy descended right toward him, striking the silver blade. It absorbed it, shining like a miniature sun, casting impossible shadows all across the field of broken armored corpses.

This was the Trinity's gift, a spell of such complexity it had taken the minds and lore of the Father, Kairos Fateweaver, and Lilith herself to create it. A spell that could turn aside the wrath of the Dark Gods and bind it to his will. Without it, without provoking the Ruinous Powers as he had, he would never have been able to do what needed to be done. One last gamble, one last card to play to defy destiny and prevent the abominable from coming to pass. Power stolen from the gods' wrath, mixed with knowledge he had gained through making use of the Warp's own paradoxical nature.

Far, far away, in a black tomb built of broken dreams, a dead god who had never been smiled.

'What can be done,' he was laughing now, wildly, madly, as the lighting struck him again and again, and yet it did not hurt him – it _could not_ hurt him – and he declared : 'can be undone ! LOOK AT ME ! Look at what I can do now ! Behold the power I wield, _against you_ , now and _forever_ !'

At the feet of the renegade Sorcerer, Ezekyle Abaddon opened his golden eyes, and took a shuddering breath. And other Legionaries rose too, their wounds vanishing. The energy that washed over them scoured their armor, painting it the same black as Iskandar's. Sons of Horus, Eaters of Worlds, Word Bearers – it did not matter to the Necromancer's power. Even the sons of Fulgrim, in the burned out ruins of their great city, were touched by his spell. They rose to their feet, unsteadily at first, then with renewed balance as their muscle memory reasserted itself. They looked at one another, at warriors they had fought and died against, and did not raise their weapons.

They stood facing the direction of their resurrection, an army of thousands of Astartes, silent and implacable, their consciousness still dazed from their time dead. They were more than mere corpses made to move again by the power of the Warp, but they hadn't been perfectly resurrected as Khayon had been able to do with those of his Legion in the past. Without the power of the Rubric to protect their souls, their time in the Empyrean had been … damaging, to say the least.

The Necromancer looked up, at the ruined ships in orbit, trapped around Drol Kheir by the whims of the Eye's ever-changing laws of physics. He smiled under his helm, and it wasn't a nice smile.

'Now,' he whispered, to himself and to his Legion of the dead, 'to war.'

* * *

AN : _"We are in the endgame now."_

I told you the next chapter of this fic wouldn't be long in coming. Truth be told, it was more than half-finished by the time I even began the Guide to Sortiarius.

And so the final arc of this story begins. I can see the end - but who knows what path we will take before we get there ? Can you guess ? Tell me what you believe will happen next !

Once this story is over, I have several ideas for another fic - and this time, it probably won't be one set in the Warhammer settings ... but that will be for later. First, I need to finish this one, and at least the _Terran Crucible_ book for the Roboutian Heresy. I am going to focus on the latter for now, until The Hunt for Cypher is complete. I am up to 13k words on it now, and I am still far from done. (Though the army list for the Dark Angels is taking shape. I have six new unit types more or less complete, and ideas for three more).

Oh, and on another note, Sandman is really good. I have finally started reading the Neil Gaiman comic, and I do not regret it.

Zahariel out.


	65. Black Legion

The _Truthbringer_ shook as it sailed the tides of the Eye of Terror, and the wards woven into its hull sizzled and sparked as they turned the raw fury of the Empyrean away. Around it (though proximity between spacecrafts meant even less in the Eye than it did in normal space), the rest of the fleet that had escaped the battle of Tallarn struggled to remain within sighting distance of the flagship. They had taken losses at Tallarn, but the host still counted thousands of Chaos Marines and millions of mortal soldiers, as well as newcomers to the Eye of Terror from the ranks of the shape-shifters who had laid down the groundwork that had made the Black Crusade possible in the first place. For the first time since the Scouring, the Traitor Legions had made war against the Imperium, and under the banner of the Illuminated Empire, they had accomplished their objectives.

Yet what was supposed to be the easiest part of the operation, the journey back to Sortiarius, was proving exceedingly difficult. It was as if the Eye of Terror itself rejected them, for according to the calculations of the aethermancers, surrendering to the storm would see them thrown back to the Cadian Gate with little damage as long as the Geller Fields held. There were many within the fleet who were whispering that some force was opposing them, riling up the Warp currents to delay their triumphant return to the Planet of the Sorcerers.

Though the Exalted Sorcerers who led the armada didn't say so aloud, they shared that belief, and in their silent conversations they wondered what Power had cast itself against the Illuminated Empire this time. With the seizing of the Hellgate of Tallarn and the capture of Janus, leader of the Grey Knights and last soul-shard of Magnus the Red, there were many who would seek to prevent their return. For surely, once these two prizes were delivered to the Crimson King and his brother Perturabo, none would remain who could stand against them.

Some thought that the storms that had slowed their advance since they had passed back through the Cadian Gate were the work of Khorne, who was enraged that the Black Fleet had retreated from battle against the Imperium once it had achieved its goals. Others believed Mortarion and Fulgrim had made an alliance, seeking revenge against those who had humbled them. Still others were convinced this was Tzeentch's doing, the God of Change having grown bored of his own seemingly ineluctable victory. And there were a few, who dared not even think it aloud, who believed that the storm was the work of the Emperor Himself, expending the dregs of His might in a desperate bid to stop them. No one knew for certain, though many were convinced they did.

They had lost several ships to the storm, either destroyed by eldritch energies, devoured from within by swarms of mindless daemons spawned by the crew's nightmares, or simply vanished from all sensors without any warning or debris leftover, either physical or psychic. So violent was the disturbance in the Aether that the Sorcerers hadn't been able to make contact with Sortiarius since the last message they had sent before crossing the Cadian Gate, telling their brothers of their success as well as the price they had paid for it.

Still, despite all these difficulties, the fleet was still making progress. Psykers on every ship of the fleet were keeping in contact, and Exalted Sorcerers had been fighting against the storm every moment since it had engulfed them. Months had passed since they had returned to the Eye (for some ships, years, or even more) but they _were_ getting closer. Soon, the Exalted Sorcerers would be able to pierce through the storm and reach out to the Crimson King, and once that contact was established, the Daemon Primarch would be able to pull them free.

The bridge of the _Truthbringer_ was a hive of activity. As the home of a thousand sons of Magnus, the flagship was the keystone of the fleet's navigation, the collective power of the Sorcerers pushing ever forward. Ignis, the Master of Ruin, sat on the command throne, watching every screen through the eyes of the crew even as his own were closed behind his helmet. With the disappearance of Ahriman, Ignis was the highest-ranking Legion Lord left in the fleet, and leadership had fallen to him, though his hand had been a light one indeed. The Exalted Sorcerer was in a trance, and had been since the coming of the storm.

His mind was the linchpin on which rested the entire enterprise. He received information from a thousand auspexes and empaths, made calculations, and sent back course adjustments that were transmitted to the rest of the fleet. It was quite beautiful, really. The teachings of the Order of Ruin had made him uniquely suited for that task of imposing order upon hateful anarchy, but it was taking its toll. Ignis hadn't rested since they had passed the Cadian Gate, and if not for the healing of the Pavoni, the effort would have killed even one such as him long ago. There was an Exalted Sorcerer of that Cult near him at all times, along with a crew of medicae servitors monitoring Ignis' vitals and ready to intervene at a moment's notice.

Elsewhere in the ship, Kroeger and Sanakht were fighting to purge the Neverborn that found their way past the wards on the ship's hull, manifesting from the flesh of crews dead in accidents or driven to suicide by maddening whispers. Neither of them could participate in the fleet's psychic guidance, but just like the sea-faring ships of old, there could be no idle hands if they were to survive the tempest. The Triarch and the crippled Exalted Sorcerer had found that they worked well together, with Sanakht being able to detect the spoor of a daemon no matter how well it sought to hide from them.

As for the last of the Legion Lords who had joined the Black Crusade, Fabius Bile, he wasn't aboard the flagship. After Tallarn, the Clonelord had moved back to the _Pulchritudinous_ , to study the shape-shifters who had survived the war and sacrifices to the Hellgate. In acknowledgement of the part the creatures had played in the Black Crusade, the _Pulchritudinous_ was also crewed by three Exalted Sorcerers, to ensure it didn't get lost in the Eye. It had been intended as an honor guard : the _Pulchritudinous_ ' Navigators (or rather, gene-spliced abominations of science that served as its Navigators) had proven their skill many times. But with the coming of the storm, the Thousand Sons had been forced to use all of their talent and power to anchor the ship to the rest of the fleet, as the horrors committed within its holds weighted it down on a metaphysical level.

The first report came from the ship _Kruzkara,_ an Eighth Legion frigate that sailed on the relative sides of the armada. Its auspexes detected other masses in the Empyrean, close by and corresponding to the presence of another fleet. At first, Ignis dismissed it as another ghost in the Warp. There were hundreds of these sightings appearing around the fleet every subjective day, either echoes of fleets from the past and future or reflections of the Black Crusade's own armada. Then the _Kruzkara_ was joined by the _Sevenfold Hate,_ and Ignis finally turned a portion of his attention to this quadrant of the fleet. At his command, the _Truthbringer_ turned its own, largely more powerful auspexes in that direction.

Almost immediately, alarms began to scream on the bridge. It was a fleet, the sensors said, massive and in formation, despite the raging tempest. It was a fleet, nearly as large as that of the Black Crusade, coming on their flanks. It was a fleet, and as more readings came in, Ignis identified the ships that composed it as belonging to the Third, Twelfth, Sixteenth and Seventeenth Legions.

Leading that fleet were two ships, and as Ignis saw them through the eyes of the Illuminated Empire's armada, his blood turned to ice. For one was the _Vengeful Spirit_ , flagship of the Sons of Horus, and one of the few ships in the galaxy that could match the _Truthbringer._ Yet it was not that ship that made the Master of Ruin worry, but the second one.

'What is the _Tlaloc_ doing here ?' Ignis whispered to himself.

Then he had no more time for questions. He sent a stream of orders across the fleet, and slowly, struggling against the pressure of the storm, the fleet answered, moving to meet this fleet that approached them in an attack pattern. He called to his brothers, sharing what he knew with them, and they sent their minds toward the _Tlaloc_ , calling out to Iskandar Khayon, who had been sent to crush the Slaaneshi Host once and for all. The spirits of fifteen Exalted Sorcerers soared through the Aether and flew toward the _Tlaloc_ , passing through her hull and searching for the Necromancer.

They did not return. Across the fleet, their bodies slowly stopped breathing and went still.

That was when Ignis realized something was terribly, _horribly_ wrong. The volley of lance-fire and torpedoes was just confirmation. This fleet, that displayed perfect unity despite coming from different Legions, was an enemy, one that bore the face of a friend and wielded power that could hurt them. But still, it was only a fleet, with lesser numbers than that of his own, and Ignis knew void-war like few others in the Eye. He could win this, and figure out what had happened after.

He could …

 _ **Ignis.**_

 _Khayon ?_ He thought, struck. The thought-voice was his brother's, but … something was …

 _ **I am sorry.**_

The bridge of the _Truthbringer_ turned to madness as consoles erupted in flames. Thralls bent over, groaning, before their flesh exploded, twisting into gateways of gore that led into absolute blackness. And through these gates came warriors clad in black armor, led by one with burning red eyes and wielding a silver sword that Ignis knew very well. He tried to move, tried to fight, tried to _think –_ but he could not, transfixed in place by the terrible weight of that gaze. The Pavoni at his side cried out as he recognized the figure too, before it drew a three-barrelled laspistol and shot him right through his left eye-lense, killing the healer instantly.

But behind Ignis, his faithful servant, the battle-automata Credence, which he had made from the broken remains of a machine that had served as the host of the daemon Kairos Fateweaver, was unaffected by the Necromancer's presence. The machine-spirit that Ignis had created to replace the daemon's animus was so complex, it would make a tech-priest weep with wonder as he ordered its destruction as a blasphemy to the God-Machine. It took less than a thousandth of a second to analyse the situation, calculate that its odds of success were infinitesimal, and act anyway.

Credence charged between its master and the intruder, raising weapons that could obliterate tanks, and opened fire, filling the space between it and Khayon with death. But it was not enough.

Khayon stood his ground, gaze still locked onto Ignis. The projectiles that were made of energy dissipated as they hit the shield of power he had drawn around himself, and the solid ammunition was crushed into dust that fell to the deck harmlessly. Credence kept shooting, until the last of its weapons clicked dry. Before it could reload them, the Necromancer raised his left hand and closed it into a fist, and the wondrous automata was reduced to nothing more than scrap.

Ignis watched it all happen. It only took a few heartbeats. Then, with a single swipe of _Itzara,_ the sword that had been forged on a mountain that no longer existed on Sortiarius – that had _never_ existed there – the Necromancer cut off the head of the Master of Ruin, while around them the Black Legion butchered the crew of the _Truthbringer._

With this single strike, the fleet of the Illuminated Empire had lost its direction. The currents of the storm pulled it apart, ruining all attempts at cohesion, even as the guns of the Black Legion armada continued firing, piercing through shields and hulls, appearing barely affected by the tempest. Without the will of Ignis to hold them and a new and previously unknown enemy attacking them, it didn't take long before the armada started to fall apart. In the days to come, no one would know who had turned and fled first, or even if that ship had fled willingly or been cast adrift by the Warp currents. But once the rout had begun, no one could stop it.

The ships of the Fifteenth Legion sensed the distress of the _Truthbringer_ , and they tried to close in on their flagship, to send reinforcements against the boarders, to save the prizes within it. Others turned on the _Tlaloc_ , thinking it had been captured, seeking to free the Necromancer and his brothers. But the _Vengeful Spirit_ hung over both ships like a guarding angel, and her guns obliterated most of the ships that got close, while the rest were faced with packs of World Eaters cruisers and frigates designed to deliver boarding parties of their own with maximum swiftness.

As Khayon walked through the corridors of the _Truthbringer,_ he was set upon by Kroeger and his Iron Warriors, who charged at him head-on. The Warsmith glowed with the power of Khorne, warding him against sorcery. Iskandar drew his sidearm, and fired, striking the Chaos Lord into the chest. Kroeger barely shrugged at the impact, but Khayon fired again, and again, while a wolf made of smoke and soul-stuff leapt from the shadows and tore his battle-brothers apart. Eventually, the las-bolts penetrated through his armor, and Kroeger fell, his chest a mess of burns, his organs failing one after the other, yet still he clung to life. Khayon looked at him for a moment, before walking by.

He had barely gone three steps before the twin swords of Sanakht came for his neck. The swordsman had hidden in the darkness, suppressing his presence so completely even the Necromancer could not detect him. It was a perfect beheading strike, from the perfect angle. Even diminished as he was, even in his sate of complete shock at what was happening, Sanakht was still one of the Traitor Legions' greatest warriors. The blades were imbued with the last of his broken power, concentrated into a molecular edge that could have cut the flesh of a God.

Khayon's head rolled off his shoulders and landed on the metal floor, still within the Necromancer's helmet. Sanakht breathed out – and realized that Iskandar's corpse was still standing. He barely had time to blink before the headless body turned and rammed _Itzica_ into his chest with enough strength that the blade burst from his back and pinned him to the wall. Then, holding the sword with one hand, it bent down, picked up its head, and put it back onto its neck.

There was a spark of power and a hiss of pressurized air, and Khayon cracked his neck before Sanakht's bewildered eyes.

'That was a good blow, brother,' said Khayon almost amicably. 'But not good enough, I am afraid.'

'What … what have you become, traitor ? Not even a prince of the Warp could have survived that !'

'I am the Necromancer, Sanakht. Death is that which I rule over. Even so, if you had gone for my brain, I would be dead … we are all far too prone to dramatic gestures. … I am sorry.'

Without another word, Iskandar pulled _Itzica_ out and brought it down again. And unlike his brother, his murderer, Sanakht's headless body did not raise again.

In the middle levels of the _Truthbringer_ , Janus was held in chains, suspended above the Cursus of Alganar. The infernal energies of the Warp Gate bathed the body of the Grey Knight, burning at his flesh and disturbing any effort he made to gather his power that wasn't cancelled by the warded chains covering most of his body. He had been stripped of his armor, and the upper layer of his skin had been flayed to remove the hexagrammatic tattoos that had covered almost every inch of its surface, though the damage had long since healed. His eyes were covered by a circlet of black metal, and his mouth was gagged.

That last restraint had been installed after he had cut his own tongue on his teeth to spill his blood into the Cursus just as the fleet passed the Cadian Gate, causing an outburst of power that had nearly torn the ship asunder. The Thousand Sons had barely been able to redirect the flux of Warp energy, taking away their one opportunity to contact Sortiarius before the storm seemingly waiting for them on the other side of the Gate made it impossible.

Had the worst-case scenario occurred, Janus himself wouldn't have survived, of course, but the Supreme Grand Master hadn't cared. His own life, however important to the Imperium it might be, was irrelevant when compared to the horrors that would happen should the Crimson King drain him of the share of Magnus' power he possessed.

The Black Crusade had shown just how low the Thousand Sons had fallen. There was nothing left of the nobility and self-sacrifice the Fifteenth Legion had once possessed : only cold, arrogant warlocks who thought it their right to impose their will upon all reality, unable to see the truth of their own evil, or uncaring of it if they could see it. They had set an entire Segmentum ablaze, created a breed of mutants that perverted everything about Mankind the Great Crusade had sought to protect, performed dark rituals and sacrificed the lives and souls of thousands, all to claim an unholy artefact from the galaxy's darkest hour.

 _Horus didn't realize how right his judgment was when he sought to arrange our deaths,_ thought Janus. _Would that the Wolves had been more thorough in destroying us._

Even in its current controlled state, the Cursus was still a portal into the Warp, a gaping wound into the very fabric of the universe. Janus' presence helped contain it, just as its own unholy power smothered his own soul-fire in turn. It was agony on a spiritual level, but Janus barely noticed, even though it would have shattered the soul of a normal human in seconds. He was too busy grieving for the fate of his Legion and the Imperium, and furiously thinking about what he could possibly do to prevent the worst from coming to pass.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that it took him several minutes for the sounds of the battle raging through the ship to register, dragging his mind back to his immediate surroundings. He could hear the sounds of bolters firing, the impacts reverberating through his chains. He could hear metal against metal, the screams of the wounded and the dying. Above all else, he could hear the groans of the falsely-named _Truthbringer_ as its hull was hit, again and again.

Janus opened his eyes with difficulty. He was tired, and starving, for his captors had only given him a single cup of water each day since he capture. His power and his transhuman physiology were still sustaining him, but he knew that the Thousand Sons were considering increasing his ration if they didn't make it out of the storm soon. After all, it wouldn't do for their great prize to die in their care before he was brought to the Crimson King.

There was a single gate into his cell, and it fell down, torn off its hinges by a delicate yet extremely potent application of power. A silhouette was visible in the doorway, becoming clearer as it advanced toward Janus, walking on the narrow catwalk that led from the edge of the room to where he hung in the air. It resolved itself into the figure of a Space Marine, clad in black armor and carrying a silver sword. Yet it was what Janus saw with his second sight that gave him pause.

'Iskandar ?' he asked through dry lips, forcing the words past his throat and tasting blood as he did so. 'Is that you, my son ? What … What has happened to you ? What have they done to you ?'

'I did this to myself, father. I did it because it was the only way to stop them.'

Neither of them said who "they" was referring to. They both knew who was to blame for their current circumstances. A hole leading to their realm was just beneath their feet.

'Ah … I see. A clever plan, if a desperate one … but we aren't exactly spoiled for choices.'

Janus looked down, at the sword held in Khayon's hand. It was still dripping with blood.

'You have killed your brothers,' he said. There was no judgment in his voice.

'Yes,' admitted Iskandar. 'Their spirits are trapped within the Rubric once more. Soon, those who learned from me on Sortiarius will pull them back into new bodies, and the Illuminated Empire will learn of what has happened here today. I can't prevent that from happening.'

'They will come for you,' said Janus. 'They will never stop hunting you. You know this ?'

'Of course,' answered the Necromancer. 'I am prepared for it. I am _counting_ on it.'

'Then go ahead,' said Janus, as he closed his eyes, and tried – and failed – to smile.

Khayon raised his arms, taking the hilt of _Itzica_ in both hands, and brought it down. Then, his sword still embedded in Janus' chest, piercing through his two hearts, Khayon bent down and whispered a few words in the ears of the Supreme Grand Master. And so loud were the screams of the Hellgate that no one, not even the Dark Gods and the Emperor on His throne, heard what the Necromancer said to the better part of his father's soul as he killed him.

Janus' final breath left his lips as a sigh, and the power of a soul-shard of Magnus the Red flowed into Iskandar once again. It was greater than that of the Father, greater than that he had gained from consuming the fragment of Lupercal's spirit trapped in the Labyrinth of Tzeentch, though not greater than both combined. It took all of Khayon's will and discipline to assimilate that power without it destroying him, and even as he succeeded he could feel the combined energies he had claimed on his path to rebellion burn away part of his identity.

No mortal being, not even an Exalted Sorcerer of the Fifteenth Legion that had been secretly prepared for the task by a Trinity of entities more powerful than most gods in human faiths, could hold onto such might without paying the price. Memories of his childhood were being eroded away, and his emotions were dimming. Even his horror at the memory of what he had seen in the Maze was slowly diminishing, though his determination to prevent it was unchanged.

The Necromancer looked down at the Hellgate, feeling its infernal heat even through his armor. With Janus dead, the wards containing the Cursus' power were already starting to fail. He reached out with his newly increased power, and, after a brief struggle, the tide of Warp energies receded.

It wouldn't last long, but he didn't need much time. After all, the storm that still raged beyond the confines of the _Truthbringer_ , born of the Father soul-shard's efforts to delay the crusade's return, would bring his new Black Legion right where they needed to be :

Cadia.

* * *

AN : well, that's done. Only a few more chapters to go, and a lot of explanations in the next one, no doubt. Please tell me in your reviews what questions you have after reading this so that I can make sure I don't miss any of them, except those I won't answer on purpose, of course.

Not much else to say ... oh, yes : over the week-end, I was hit by a random bolt of inspiration, and now I have 3k words of a weird story where the Dark Gods decide to resurrect Horus after the first Black Crusade, using the pieces of his soul he left behind on Molech and persuading Bile to clone another body for Lupercal. In parallel, part of me has started to wonder what would have happened if the Warmaster had _survived_ the Siege of Terra. Both or neither of these may end up in another short story in the future. For now, I need to focus on The Hunt for Cypher.

Zahariel out.


	66. We Are Returned

_Now_

When the Black Legion emerged from the Eye of Terror, it found a fleet arrayed against it. The Imperium had learned its lesson after Ahriman's Black Crusade – never again would the Cadian Gate be left unguarded. Yet with the Segmentum still reeling from the blow inflicted upon it by the shape-shifters and their puppet armies, the High Lords of Terra hadn't been able to garrison the Gate as heavily as they would have wanted yet. The bulk of the Imperium forces were still fighting to pacify the Segmentum, and the Grey Knights had returned to Titan, to perform rituals of divination and try to find out what had happened to their Supreme Grand Master – and to plan his succession, though none were willing to admit it, even in the privacy of their own thoughts.

Still, word of the Battle of Tallarn had reached the Throne, and these Lords who ruled in the Emperor's name had immediately used all of their authority to send as many troops as possible to Cadia, to guard against another incursion. Most of these forces had yet to arrive, but an entire battle-group of the Imperial Navy had already made it, and the planet's surface was being fortified by several corps of engineers from the Adeptus Mechanicus. Hundreds of thousands of tech-priests and servitors were busy razing the vast jungles and raising huge fortresses upon the planet's soil. Whole Regiments were garrisoning these new strongholds, though there was already place enough for a hundred times that number – the Mechanicus had been told to build _big_.

The Angels of Death were there too, of course. The sons of Russ who had survived the battle of Tallarn had drawn lots among themselves, and one had been chosen to take his forces and guard the Cadian Gate while his brothers hunted down the detritus leftover by the Black Crusade. There too were the sons of Dorn, come to assist in fortifying Cadia against the Archenemy. The Black Templars had returned to the Segmentum with bitter triumph, their lost lord Sigismund vindicated in death by the return of Chaos. High Marshal Bohemond, who had stood alongside Sigismund in battle against the Great Beast, had brought one of his Chapter's strongholds all the way there – without authorization. The _Unrelenting Bastion_ orbited Cadia, silently defying the rest of the Imperium to object to its presence. High Marshal Bohemon had since left to take part in the purging of the Segmentum, but wisely, the other commanders left the stronghold alone.

Representatives of other Chapters had come to Cadia, and made pledges to come to its defense should it ever come under attack again. The Space Marines could not tie too many of their numbers to a single position – such was not the way of the _Codex Astartes,_ nor the purpose for which the Emperor had made them. But they _would_ answer Cadia's call. There was a vision shared among those who had come to Cadia : that of the planet reforged into an unbreakable fortress, and wall that would hold the hordes of the Traitor Legions at bay for all eternity. It might take decades, centuries even to fully transform the jungle world into that vision, but the gears of the Imperium's bureaucracy were turning – and there was _nothing_ that could stand in its way.

For the first time since the Great Beast had risen, since an artificial moon had smiled down upon Holy Terra, the High Lords were afraid. They had thought that the threat of the Traitor Legions was over – that they had been destroyed by the madness of the Eye of Terror, with only a few survivors skulking in the dark between stars, reduced to pirates and raiders. To several of them, the Traitor Legions had been nothing but a myth, a legend used to keep the masses in line and prevent the Space Marines Chapters from ever claiming the throne for themselves.

But now, a Segmentum burned, and while the Chaos fleet that had emerged from the Eye was gone (having been defeated and fled in shame, according to Imperial propaganda) a few knew the truth. The Inquisitorial Representative had confronted the High Lords in a private meeting, and revealed to them what the Ordos had pieced together (and that they had determined that the High Lords should know). They knew that the Black Crusade had succeeded in what it had set off to accomplish, and they knew that the Traitor Legions had survived, after all.

The monsters of myth were real, and they would bleed the galaxy dry to fulfill their monstrous ambitions, whatever those may be – for no true servant of the God-Emperor should dare to try and imagine the ultimate goals of such black-souled traitors. And so, the High Lords had come together – a rare feat indeed – and decided that Cadia would be the wall which would shield the rest of the Imperium from the horrors of the Eye. The Cadian Gate would become the greatest stronghold of the galaxy, a place where the lives of billions could be spent, so long as it kept Chaos at bay.

But that vision would never be fulfilled. It had been hoped that, since thousands of years had passed between Horus' defeat and the Black Crusade, there would be a similar delay before the next onslaught. No one had truly believed that the Imperium had another three thousand years – but they had thought that decades, _centuries_ of relative calm awaited them, once they had put down the cults and rebellions that the Black Crusade had left in its wake. The enemy had shown that it knew the value of patience, and was willing to wait centuries for its agents to prepare the way for its true forces. The Inquisitors were confident that the next move of the so-called "Illuminated Empire" would be to use their unholy sorcery to rebuild their networks of cultists within Imperial society, and surely there was no other force within the Eye that could threaten them.

But they were wrong.

Less than three years had passed by the Imperial calendar when the Black Legion came to Cadia. A fleet of dozens of ships emerged at the system's edge, bursting from the Empyrean like rafts thrown about by a storm. Most of them were Legion vessel, though altered by their time in the Eye almost beyond recognition. Two of them were known to the Imperium more than any other. One was the _Truthbringer_ , the flagship of the previous Black Crusade, though it appeared damaged and with many of its weapons inactive. The other hadn't been seen since the Siege of Terra : it was the _Vengeful Spirit_ , once the flagship of the Arch-Traitor Horus himself.

Most of the vessels in the fleet registered in the archives as having once sailed under the banner of the Sixteenth Legion, though there were ships of the Third, Twelfth and Seventeenth Legions present as well. Apart from the _Truthbringer_ , only one craft bore the insignia of the Thousand Sons, who had led the Black Crusade and, according to Inquisitorial briefings, had risen to become the dominant power of the Eye. That ship was the _Tlaloc_ , last known as being under the command of Captain Iskandar Khayon of the Fifteenth Legion during the Siege of Terra.

Panicked shouts and calm commands passed between the ships as the Chaos fleet approached. More and more ships continued to emerge from the Warp while the tentative chain of command that had been established over the last three years tightened its grip onto the disparate Imperial elements. Slowly – but with commendable speed for an engagement of that scale – the ships defending Cadia put themselves in formation to meet the oncoming foe.

On the bridge of the _Vengeful Spirit_ , Iskandar Khayon, Necromancer and Master of the Black Legion, looked upon the forces arrayed before him, and smiled mirthlessly. Sat upon his command throne, he raised his hand and exerted his will – and the Black Legion obeyed.

* * *

 _Then_

Kelbor-Hal, once Fabricator-General of the Mechanicum, now an Arch-Heretek of the Dark Mechanicum, master of the Rings of Artek-Ker and ally to the Illuminated Empire, sensed the arrival of Iskandar Khayon before anyone else in the system. Since his liberation from imprisonment at the hands of his former apprentice, Kelbor-Hal had rebuilt himself extensively. There was no easy way to describe what he looked like now : he was a nightmare from Mankind's first forays into robotics, when feverous artists had dreamt of a future where machine overcame and replaced Man. He was huge, taller than a Dreadnought, and armed with weaponry he had designed himself from scraps of lore recovered from the ruined libraries of Mars during the civil war.

These augmentations had served him well, allowing him to dispatch more than a dozen assassins sent by his remaining rivals within the Rings (and three more sent by his own subordinates, hoping to overthrow him). None of these assassins were dead. Along with those of their employers he had managed to capture (all but two of them, one whose identity he hadn't managed to uncover, and the other a well-entranched warlord on the Seventh Ring), they had been stripped of all of their augmentations save for those allowing them to remain self-aware. _Then_ they had been linked to the great torture-engines, their every nerve a plaything to the cruel machine-spirit. Their screams of agony were broadcast all across Kelbor-Hal's domains on a requisitioned frequency, making sure that all of his minions were reminded of the peril of crossing their lord and master at all time.

When the fleet came, Kelbor-Hal's physical form was linked to the machines at the heart of his fortress on the First Ring, his mind split between a dozen cogitators, each capable of managing the machine-spirits of an entire hive-city. He could see all that was happening within the Rings, though the bulk of his attention was generally occupied with trying to pierce the secrets of the singularity at the center of the Rings.

Yet even with that task taking up most of his processing power, he still sensed the _massive distortion_ in the Warp that heralded the arrival of a fleet at the edge of the system. Within milliseconds, he had sent orders across the Rings, commanding the armies of the Dark Mechanicum to prepare. There was a possibility that the new arrivals were friendly – but it was a very remote one, for they had received no communication announcing visitors from the Illuminated Empire or any of the other factions in the Eye.

When the fleet came into view, Kelbor-Hal realized that there was another explanation – maybe these newcomers hadn't called ahead because they had been unable to. The fleet that exited the storm at Artek-Ker's edge was ragged, its ships many and great but wounded nigh unto death. In truth, as the Arch-Heretek took in more and more reports, he was amazed that any of them were functioning at all, let alone had survived the journey to the Rings. He could detect strange currents of Warp energy running through the ships' engines, supplementing their failing reactors and bypassing the breaks in the network of cables and other, more fleshy information transmitters.

Then came the voice. It was, on one level, a vox-transmission sent on all frequencies. But it was also a psychic communication being beamed directly into his mind, despite the many protections he had installed precisely to guard against that kind of thing.

' **Kelbor-Hal,'** said the voice, and the Arch-Heretek recognized it.

'Lord Khayon ...'

' **I apologize for dropping by without warning, but as you can see, our journey wasn't exactly an easy one. Me and my fleet require your services. We have payment, of course. We are returning from Drol Kheir, where we battled the last of Eidolon' followers – you can see the damage we sustained there. The loot from the palaces of the Slaaneshi Host is in our hulls, all of it yours in exchange for repairing and reprovisioning this fleet. After all, it wouldn't do for me to return to my lord and master in such a battered state.'**

'… Of course, Lord Khayon. Whatever you need, we shall provide it.'

' **Then please inform your servants of our accord quickly. It would be a shame if one of them panicked and started something both of us would regret – though _you_ more than I.'**

Slowly, the will of Kelbor-Hal was transmitted across Artek-Ker. The shipyards of the Rings were prepared, and the fleet of the Necromancer made anchor, allowing the tech-priests to begin their work and take their payment from their holds. The adepts of the Dark Mechanicum who entered the vessels emerged showing something very much like fear, exchanging tales of the silent, empty corridors, devoid of mortal crew. Even the Astartes aboard these ships were strange – they were cold, lacking much of the passion that was known to drive most Legionaries.

Those of the Dark Mechanicum who had met the sons of Angron before were thoroughly spooked by the World Eaters present within the fleet : they were all as eerily silent and calm as the rest as they went about their tasks. Space Marines who hailed from the Third Legion walked side by side with warriors from the Twelfth without dispute, and apart from the Lord Khayon himself, there seemed to be no Thousand Sons present within the entire fleet. That was strange, especially considering that the Necromancer had been sent to destroy the Slaaneshi Host – yet there were Emperor's Children among the forces under his command.

Still, the Necromancer kept his word. The riches of his fleet – and there were many, for the hoards of the Slaaneshi Host had been filled beyond the nightmares of avarice – were handed over to the Dark Mechanicum, and strange as they might be, the Astartes still counted in the thousands. So the tech-priests took their price and set their servitors and tech-thralls to work. In many ways, it was an honor to work on such great ships – there was no small amount of infighting among the hereteks to decide which ones would have the privilege of working on the _Vengeful Spirit._ Those who ended up winning the rights to go there (after a small, very discrete war was fought between their private armies on the outermost Ring, far from sight of the guests, of course) were amazed at the flagship's wonders. From the great engines forged in Mars' own shipyards at the dawn of the Great Crusade to the crystal statues spawned from the echoes of those who had perished aboard the vessel in the last hours of the Horus Heresy, there were many unique sights to behold within the _Vengeful Spirit._

Those hereteks who had cause to go to the bridge of the _Vengeful Spirit_ were the only ones to see Iskandar Khayon in person. The Necromancer sat on the command throne of the flagship in full black armor, his silver sword drawn and laid flat across his legs. Even the most brain-dead of all the Dark Mechanicum servitors could feel the power coiling around the Sorcerer.

If there was any link between Khayon's presence and the sudden dearth of communication with the rest of the Eye, Kelbor-Hal knew better than to raise the issue. He ordered his people to record everything they saw, building an estimate of the total might under Khayon's command. What he would do with that knowledge, the Arch-Heretek wasn't certain – but he could think of many possibilities. It all depended on what had really happened on Drol Kheir, something that none of his many spies among the workers had been able to discover. The machine-spirits of the ships violently fought back any attempt at accessing their records of the battle. As for the Astartes themselves, when they answered questions about it at all, the only thing they would say was that the Slaaneshi Host had been destroyed, and they were now preparing to go to their destiny.

Eventually, the work was done. The fleet was repaired, with new crews and servitors provided to replace the mysterious losses. Such a number of skilled workers would have bankrupted a forge-world, but the Rings counted untold billions of souls, and they would easily be replaced. The fleet departed without incident (in fact, during the months of their presence, there had been no violence at all from the Astartes, except when a Dark Mechanicum experiment got loose or a spy was caught in a forbidden section of a ship). All in all, Iskandar Khayon had been a perfect customer, and yet as he watched the fleet disappear into the Warp through a thousand borrowed eyes, Kelbor-Hal could not help but feel a deep sense of relief.

He did not know what his alliance with the Black Legion, however unaware, would cost him.

* * *

 _Now_

For the first time since Lorgar had come to Cadia and committed genocide upon the planet's human inhabitants to hide the evidence of his betrayal, the skies of Cadia were torn by fire. The warships of the Black Legion and the Imperium were engaged in a wide-scale battle, with long-range lance-fire tearing the smaller crafts apart. Space Marine vessels surged ahead of the Imperial armada, seeking to unload their cargo of boarding torpedoes. The long-range weaponry of the _Unrelenting Bastion_ was locked in on the _Vengeful Spirit_ , having identified it as the flagship of the armada. That decision was still contested by some of the intelligence officers, but the damage of the _Truthbringer_ and the lack of a strong Thousand Sons presence made it highly probable that this assault was not coming from the Illuminated Empire but from another faction of the Eye.

Volleys of torpedoes crossed the void between ships at speeds that would have made the first human space explorers gasp in awe. Teleportation chambers sent squads of Terminators aboard vessels with down shields, where they wreaked havoc. The Chaos fleet advanced straight toward Cadia itself, and the great engines of the _Unrelenting Bastion_ ignited to put the space fortress between the heretics and the world. Soon, the corridors of the fortress became a battlefield, as boarding torpedoes and teleportations deployed squads of Chaos Marines within them.

The Black Templars fought against these invaders, whose heraldry seemed to them to be a mocking parody of their own. Yet even as Sigismund's heirs fought with fire and fury, they couldn't help but notice that something was strange in their opponents. They still had all the skills the records told the traitors had had during the Heresy, but they fought in silence, and the markings of different Legions were visible within warriors who seemed to be part of the same squads.

All the while, doubt began to creep into the minds of Imperial commanders. The _Truthbringer's_ guns were silent, yet it wasn't relegated to the back of the armada – nor was it being used as bait. Instead, an entire battle-group was defending it and even taking hits meant for it. Why ? And why, by the Throne, did the psykers foam at the mouth and collapse whenever they were asked about the strange aetheric readings emanating from the _Truthbringer_?

Only the few Inquisitors present at Cadia suspected the truth, being the only ones to know all that the Imperium knew about what had happened at Tallarn. They knew what the Thousand Sons and their allies had dug out of the sand of that world, and how it had been awakened through bloodshed. Deep within one of their ships, imprisoned inside a padded cell and held in place by chains forged from iron extracted from the blood of martyrs, was a man who had survived all the horrors of Tallarn. The moment the _Truthbringer_ had emerged from the Warp, he had stopped his convulsions, and spoken a single sentence : "it's back". Ever since then, no matter the motion of the ship, his gaze had remained locked in the direction of the _Truthbringer_ – though the captain hadn't yet performed manoeuvres that would have made it physically impossible.

At the command of these Inquisitors, more and more ships were assigned to destroying the _Truthbringer_ and its unholy cargo. But the Chaos fleet had anticipated this reaction, and the _Vengeful Spirit_ drifted closer to the _Truthbringer_ , shielding her sister battleship.

And then, as the void war went on, Khayon's message came. His voice was carried on every vox-channel, as well as psychically projected so that every astropath and psyker in the Imperial fleet had the words burned upon their soul. The Necromancer wanted to make damn sure that his message was heard and carried to its intended recipients. On far-off worlds, children suddenly started speaking in his voice, and in the Eye of Terror, a thousand oracles and seers were caught in the throes of an apoplectic vision, screaming his words before they died. For years afterwards, the Inquisition would hunt down those who heard the proclamation in order to suppress its spreading. They would never fully succeed, however. Stories would be passed on, changing with each telling, but a core of truth would always remain, as if the message itself refused to be changed overmuch.

"Soldiers of the Imperium, hear me. I am Iskandar Khayon. Once a son of Prospero. Once a warrior of the Thousand Sons. Once a lord of the Illuminated Empire. I fought to help forge the Imperium, and when it destroyed my homeworld, I waged war to tear it down. All of my life, I believed that I was fighting in the name of illumination – of banishing the shadow of ignorance and elevating Mankind to its rightful place.  
But in the Eye of Terror, where Gods and mortals meet, I was given the most bitter truth. I was shown the true face of my Legion, and of the Dark Gods who have enslaved it. I was shown the true end for which I was fighting, and the lie of the cause I thought I had devoted myself to.  
Now I am the Necromancer, twice-betrayer and oath-breaker. Master of the Black Legion.  
You have been sent here to guard the gate to Hell, to make sure that the monsters that set the Segmentum ablaze never threaten the Imperium again.  
You can't.  
You are mighty – yours are the armies that broke Horus' rebellion, thousands of years ago. Yours is the empire that stretches across the stars, holding a million worlds against the hungry claws of countless xenos predators. Billions of souls march under the banner of the Imperium, and the descendants of those me and my brothers fought against in the First Warmaster's rebellion stand ready to fight and die for the oaths we broke.  
But all of that won't be enough. Not when faced with that which dwells within the Eye. Already you have suffered a great blow, greater than any of you believe. It is only by _my_ interference in the Archenemy's plans that the Imperium's doom is not yet certain.  
I do not expect you to believe my words. Indeed, your duty demands that you do not. But take them back to your masters, that they may piece together the terrible truth.  
Know this, High Lords and masters of the Holy Ordos of the Inquisition : Janus is dead. But he did not perish at the hands of the Crimson King. Mine were the hands that ended his life. And his power, so great that the Crimson King ordered a Crusade in part to reclaim it, is now mine.  
With the power I stole from the Black Crusade as it returned home, I shall now seal the Cadian Gate, and guard it forevermore against my brethren trapped within the Eye.  
Hate me, curse me, and seek my death with all your heart. It matters naught to me.  
Heed my words, and know them to be true. Here, at the entrance of Hell, let my word be law :  
Cadia is _mine_.  
Leave now, while you still can, _and_ _ **never RETURN."**_

It had been more than a message, the Imperial psykers realized belatedly. It was an incantation. They sensed the power aboard the _Vengeful Spirit_ spike, growing greater and greater, reaching heights they had only felt once before – when they had been dragged before the Golden Throne to be soul-bound to the God-Emperor. They knew terror then, these men and women who had gazed into the Warp and burned their eyes in the light of the Astronomican.

A psychic shock-wave burst from the _Vengeful Spirit_ , manifesting in the Materium as eldritch fire that engulfed the nearest Imperial vessels. This was no physical fire, and the hulls were no proof against it : it was a spiritual flame that ignited the flesh of the crew inside. Only those vessels which had been protected by hexagrammatic wards were spared from the onslaught, but there were few enough of those that the _Vengeful Spirit_ could either finish them off or force them to retreat. The path of the _Truthbringer_ had been cleared, with only the _Unrelenting Bastion_ standing between it and Cadia.

Such a display of power terrified many Imperial captains, and a few succumbed to panic. They ordered their crew to break off, to abandon the engagement and withdraw from Cadia as the message had commanded. All but one of these captains were executed by Commissars, and discipline restored through a few more summary executions and the threat of the Inquisition's wrath. Only one ship, the _Abdiel's Blade_ , which had already been on the edge of the battle, managed to reach the Mandeville point and fled from the battle. Those captains who remained at their post made sure to mark the ship's name into the records – in time, there _would_ be a reckoning for the _Abdiel_ 's cowardice.

Meanwhile, messenger ships broke off from the Imperial fleet, their captains ordered to carry the message back to Terra no matter the cost. The officers of these ships knew that, should they complete their journey to the Throneworld, their likely fate would be mind-wiping or summary execution – they had all heard rumors of what the Inquisition was doing across the Segmentum to keep the full scope of the Illuminated Empire's subversive abilities under wraps, lest some among the nobility decide to throw their lot in with the heretics. But the message had to be carried. The High Lords must know what the arch-heretic Iskandar Khayon had told the Imperium that day.

All was proceeding as Khayon had planned. Now it was time for him to cast the spear, and deliver the final blow of this battle, and the second one of his war against the Dark Gods and their pawns.

* * *

 _Then_

The _Tlaloc_ was falling. They could all feel it, even with the gravity compensators struggling as hard as they could. According to the few time-pieces that survived, they had been falling for a hundred years now. Entire generations of thralls had been born, lived and died with the feeling of falling, never knowing what it was like to have solid ground under their feet. Had there not been many much more pressing concerns, muscle atrophy among the crew would have been a problem.

First among the more important concerns was the matter of supplies. The modifications wrought upon the ship in the docks of the _Gift of Thot_ meant her engines ran off Warp energy, and weren't at risk of shutting down so long as hereteks and Sorcerers (neither of which the _Tlaloc_ was short of) kept up with the maintenance. Food, and especially water, was a more pressing issue. After the first decade, the Thousand Sons had culled the mutant tribes inhabiting the lower decks, harvesting the bodies for processing into protein paste and moisture extraction. Since then, the control of the population had taken a more ritualistic tone, with the tribes offering up their own in sacrifice to their masters and the metal-wrought goddess that dwelled at the heart of their world, lest they invite their terrible wrath upon them once more.

The auspex returned nothing, and all the windows showed was infinite blackness. They had sent void-proof servitors outside, tethered to the _Tlaloc_ by thick cables. They had returned without issue, but all their scans had indicated was that there was nothing around them – no cosmic radiation, no particles of matter, _nothing._ The only force at work was the one pulling the _Tlaloc_ down, and the force never varied in a hundred years – or if it did, all the ship's machine could not detect the variation. For all intents and purposes, it remained constant – about a dozen times as strong as the pull of Terra's gravity would have been if the ship had been within the Throneworld's atmosphere.

Psykers could still call upon the Warp, but leaving their bodies showed the _Tlaloc_ as the sole island of light falling into endless black. The first time they had tried this, they had nearly lost the soul of the Sorcerer who had made the attempt. His spiritual body had been affected far more severely by whatever was pulling the ship down. He had fallen through the deck, the ship's hull, and had been several kilometers below the _Tlaloc_ before his brothers had managed to catch him and, slowly and with great effort, pull him back into his body. The experience had been quite traumatic : it had taken years for the Sorcerer to dare use his powers again, and even now, an aura of soul-deep cold followed him wherever he went, causing frost to appear on the metal walls.

Since then, there had been other, more careful attempts. Sorcerers had projected their astral selves from within ritual circles that anchored their soul to their mortal body, ensuring that it could not drift too far. Even so, they had felt the monstrous pull downward, the resistance of their tethers nearly tearing their very souls apart. Eventually, the experiments had ceased – not because of the danger, but because they weren't finding any answers, and few things were more disturbing to the sons of Magnus.

Even the memories of the Sorcerers were confused, fragmented. In the first days of their fall, they had talked a lot, joining their minds and sharing what they recalled in order to get a complete picture. They _knew_ who and what they were : Sorcerers of the Thousand Sons Legion, who had been betrayed by the Emperor and had joined Horus' rebellion. They _knew_ that the rebellion had failed, though memories of the war itself were among the most damaged of all. They remembered the exile to the Eye of Terror, and the slow degeneration as the curse of the flesh-change spread.

They remembered the ray of hope, as their lord joined the Cabal that sought to save them. And they remembered his orders : stay ready to strike, if things were to go wrong. But the ritual – the _Rubric;_ it had taken them seven days before one of them had remembered the name – had worked, and they had been saved. Then the war, against the thralls of the Dark Mechanicum to secure the alliance of their lord, against the Plague Legion of Mortarion, against Fulgrim's horde.

They _knew_ that they had been at Drol Kheir, fighting with the Sons of Horus against the Slaaneshi Host. The Sorcerers had performed a grand ritual to crack open the planet's defenses, and had been resting in their chambers while their leader, their Captain, Iskandar Khayon, took the duty of seeing things to the end on the surface. Then the bastard sons of Angron and Lorgar had come. They remembered a great ship opening fire on them, remembered a great cry of effort, a flash of light …

… and then they had been falling.

After the first year, they had all remembered their names. After the first decade, they had remembered most of their lives – but each of them had his own holes in his memory, bits and pieces of himself lost forever. And, as only the sons of the Cyclops could, they sought to fill these holes in themselves with knowledge. But the experiments had brought no answers.

Of course, lack of answers did not mean there was a lack of _theories_ : every one of the one hundred Sorcerers aboard the _Tlaloc_ had his own idea of where they were and what it was that caused them to keep falling in the infinite black. It had been Ashur-Kai, the White Seer and leader of the Sorcerers in the absence of Khayon – as much because of his rank as the Necromancer's second-in-command that because he was the only Exalted Sorcerer aboard, and therefore the mightiest of them all – who had saved them from certain destruction. According to Ashur-Kai, he had not exactly thought through what he was doing : his act had been one of desperation. He had reached out to the Anamnesis, the vast machine-queen of the _Tlaloc._ Through his connection to her, he had forced the Warp drives of the ship into overdrive, tearing a hole into reality not ahead of the ship, but directly around it. Such a function was normally unused within the Eye : there was no point in opening a portal to the Warp when you were already halfway there. But it had worked, somehow, sparing them from obliteration at the guns of the _Blessed Lady._

Some Sorcerers believed that they were in the deepest parts of the Warp, so low in the dimensions that even the daemons did not come here. They said that the pull was the result of some kind of difference of pressure between the dimensions caused by their presence here. Others whispered that there was _something_ down below, something that had caught them when Ashur-Kai had broken the fragile half-reality of the Eye even further – something stranger even than Chaos.

Still others thought that Ashur-Kai hadn't saved them at all : that they were all dead, and this was some grim afterlife created for the amusement of the Dark Gods, who had been able to steal their souls from the Rubric thanks to the White Seer's folly. This might have been cause for concern and fear of mutiny, if the Sorcerers who embraced this position hadn't all retired to their own chambers, meditating and rarely leaving their quarters. They at least seemed to have made peace with the knowledge that they would _never_ leave this lightless realm.

For a hundred years they fell … and then, out of the dark, there was light.

On the command throne where he sat secured by several restraints to keep him from floating, Ashur-Kai straightened. For a moment, he thought he had gone mad – but then the crew started reacting. Most of them had never seen any other light than the artificial lighting of the bridge, or the fires and torches used in the lower decks. Most of them had never seen anything through the occulus except the black. And now there was a point of light, right in front of the ship – and it _stayed_ in front of them, even though they were still falling.

A voice echoed in Ashur-Kai's skull, as familiar as his own, yet charged with new power :

 _ **Found you.**_

The light grew, and engulfed the _Tlaloc_ – and just like that, they were out. Back in the Eye, with its riot of nightmare colors filling the occulus. There were cries of pain, shock and horror among the crew, and hundreds of thousands of broken bones as the amplified gravity suddenly found itself straining against nothing at all _._ The Anamnesis corrected it in less than a second, but it was enough to decimate the mortals aboard – the Space Marines were made of sterner stuff. For now, gravity aboard the _Tlaloc_ was maintained to a third of what was standard – heavier than it had been in the dark, but not so much that those adapted to the falling wouldn't be able to move.

Alarms started to ring as the auspexes detected a massive fleet surrounding the _Tlaloc –_ then were silenced as the Anamnesis identified the ships as mostly Sixteenth Legion, though Ashur-Kai raised an eyebrow at the presence of World Eaters and Word Bearers vessels within its ranks. If not for the voice he had heard in the darkness, he would have thought this fleet belonged to those who had come to Drol Kheir to strike the Illuminated Empire in the back – though the number of Sons of Horus warships would have indicated an _overwhelming_ success on their part.

But the voice was still within his skull, and tentatively, he reached out in answer.

 _Sekhandur ? Is it you ?_

 _ **Yes, my old teacher. I knew you couldn't be dead.**_

… _What happened to you ?  
_

 _ **That is a long story.**_

And it was. Khayon came aboard the _Tlaloc_ , and Ashur-Kai could barely recognize his former pupil for the power he radiated now. The Necromancer spoke to the White Seer in private, and all that he said to him, the Anamnesis heard as well. He told him everything : the betrayal of Argel Tal, his fall into the Maze, the horrible future he had seen there, the Trinity and their offer … and what he had done that had made him so strong. He told him of his return to Artek-Ker, and of the ritual he had performed to find the _Tlaloc_ , using his double connection to both Ashur-Kai and his sister, Itzara, who had once been human but was now the core of the Anamnesis. As he spoke, he opened his mind, letting his old mentor see the events he described through his eyes.

'It grieves me to break your heart like mine was broken, brother,' he said when he was done.

'… Everything we have done ...' whispered Ashur-Kai, staring at his hands. 'It meant nothing. Less than nothing. And neither I nor anyone else could see it. No, that's not true. I realize it now … we merely refused to see. We couldn't accept it.'

'You can return to Sortiarius if you want,' said Iskandar. 'I won't stop you – though I _will_ make sure you arrive too late to warn Magnus before I have done what I must. But I would not have you as my enemy.'

Ashur-Kai laughed, the sound bitter and dry.

'Return to the Crimson King, after what you have told me ? No, Iskandar. He would destroy me to hide the truth you showed me. You have opened my eyes, damn you, and for that, I will join you.'

One by one, the hundred Sorcerers aboard the _Tlaloc_ were called to the chamber and told the truth. One by one, they faced the same choice Ashur-Kai had, and it was a testament to the power of truth and the strength of their loyalty to their Captain that all of them chose to paint their armor black – though many wept as they did so. Medical aid was brought in from the rest of the fleet to help the crippled crew, along with much-needed supplies of water and nutrient paste.

Reunited with his brothers, Iskandar Khayon plunged back into the tides of the Eye, toward the storm that raged at the edge of the Eye, keeping the returning fleet of the Black Crusade from reaching Sortiarius and blinding the One-Eyed King from discovering his sons' treachery.

* * *

 _Now_

Pain. Pain unlike anything he had ever known – and Iskandar Khayon had known more pain than even most other Space Marines who had fought in the Great Crusade and the Heresy.

Khayon's body was breaking apart under the strain of wielding that much power, but every tear in his muscles, every crack in his bones, was healing as soon as it appeared – only to appear again as he kept pushing himself far beyond his limits. The pain was beyond description. It would have killed a mortal man instantly, and driven an Astartes to madness within seconds. But Khayon was denied the release of death and delirium alike. He had a duty, and he would perform it. For all its strength, that pain was only physical. It couldn't compare to the torment of seeing one's homeworld burn, or to watch and _know_ that your Legion was the plaything of a mad god, your entire life a lie.

He was standing now, on the bridge of the _Vengeful Spirit,_ in the center of a ritual circle _._ He held his sword in both hands high above his head, and sparks of power rippled over his body. The _Tlaloc_ hovered close to the battleship, and aboard it a hundred Sorcerers were pooling their energies, under the guidance of Ashur-Kai, whose own mental faculties were increased by his communion with the Anamnesis. The bulk of the effort rested on Khayon's shoulders, but it would be the White Seer who ensured that what he was about to do didn't end up cracking the galaxy in two.

A swarm of transports, gunships and evacuation-pods were leaving the immense form of the _Truthbringer,_ while Khayon tightened his psychic grip around the vessel. He could feel the Hellgate within the warship's hull. Its power burned his soul as he touched the vessel with his psychic abilities. The Cursus itself wasn't sentient – at least, Iskandar was fairly sure it wasn't – but the malign intelligences that dwelled on the other side of the Hellgate were slowly realizing what he was doing, and they weren't pleased at all. They were too late to stop him, though.

He saw a figure standing before him, lithe and clad in baroque armor of vivid colors. Its face was a white mask, and as he stared at it, several more like it emerged seemingly from nowhere to stand at his side. He recognized them, though he couldn't have said where the knowledge came from. Harlequins, the dancing servants of the Laughing God of the Eldar.

They weren't here to stop him, he suddenly realized. The Harlequins had come to bear witness to this moment, when the fate of the entire galaxy would be shaped by his actions. That explained why the Eldars hadn't interfered : Khayon had half-expected to find Craftworld Ulthwé waiting for them at Cadia, though on which side its defenders would have fought, he hadn't been certain.

Was this the right thing to do ? Part of him asked, the part of him that, despite all that had happened to him, was still a child looking up to the stars and dreaming of glory. The part of him that had never been allowed to grow up. He smiled under his black helm, a bitter and joyless smirk. Too late for doubts now. Then he heard the cries of the Dark Gods as they finally understood the full scope of what he sought to do, and his smile grew more sincere. For they, too, were too late.

The signal came. The shields of the _Unrelenting Bastion_ had been brought down for good by the Black Legionaries deployed inside the fortress. Teleportation beacons were activated, and most of the thousand Traitor Marines Khayon had sent to disable the fortress were dragged back to their ships – the rest would have to find their own way out, or perish alongside the fortress. All the guns of the _Vengeful Spirit_ opened fire, alongside those of every ship at range. The Black Templars fortress cracked apart, riddled by a hundred detonations as ammunition stores exploded.

The path was clear. With a great cry, the Necromancer hurled the _Truthbringer_ at Cadia, aiming the great ship like a spear toward the great fields cleaned out by the Adeptus Mechanicus' terraforming engines. The ship passed through the debris field that had been the _Unrelenting Bastion_. Deep within it, the seals around the Cursus of Alganar shattered one after the other, and the unholy energies of the Hellgate poured through the ship. Deck after deck was drowned in madness and horror, as the remains of crew-members who had perished during the battle of Tallarn and the ship's capture by the Black Legion in the Eye became the plaything of the Warp's unfettered might.

Then the _Truthbringer_ hit the surface. The power of the Hellgate met the Warp-nullifying field generated by the millions of pylons built upon Cadia countless aeons before, part of a galaxy-spanning network designed to prevent the unchecked spread of the Empyrean into the Materium. Two unstoppable forces pressed against one another, and neither of them gave. In the end, it was the vectors for these forces that broke : the Cursus of Alganar shattered, and so did Cadia. The planet broke apart, continent-sized fault-lines appearing on its surface. The Guardsmen and Mechanicus priests who hadn't evacuated yet had enough time to look upon the devastation before it engulfed them too. The strength of the blast destroyed those ships closer to Cadia, and the shock-wave echoed across the Materium and the Immaterium alike.

Khayon stumbled a few steps backwards and collapsed on his throne, breathing hard. One of his hearts had burst in his chest. He was bleeding from his eyes, nostrils, mouth and ears, and smoke was rising from every joint in his armor. The ritual circle had been burned into the deck of the bridge, its runes glowing with an eldritch brilliance that would never fade. But though it had cost him much, he had succeeded in his task. Already, the effects of Cadia's destruction were showing.

Like a great maw closing, the madness of the Eye of Terror flowed toward the star of Cadia. The great rent in the Occulis Terribilis that the world's great Null engines had generated was no more, and Chaos was rushing in to take back the space that the pylons had denied to it. It didn't matter that in doing so, it was also sealing the only stable route out of the Eye of Terror, trapping the Illuminated Empire, the Traitor Legions, and all the numberless hosts of the Lost and the Damned.

The Eye wouldn't be able to spread further – there were other worlds like Cadia, where networks of pylons kept the fabric of reality more or less intact. Those aboard the _Tlaloc_ were making sure it remained so, channelling the worst of the tide of unreality inward the Eye rather than outward. There would be a time of greater chaos and madness than usual there. Hundreds of worlds would be caught in it, and untold billions would either perish or be transformed beyond recognition, but Khayon couldn't find it in himself to care.

The Imperial fleet was breaking apart. There wasn't much else it could do – unlike the Black Legion, they hadn't known what was happening. Half of the ships had been destroyed by swarms of daemons before they had been able to raise their Geller Fields. The rest were retreating, their Navigators desperate to escape before they were completely cut off from the Astronomican and were truly trapped in the Eye of Terror. Khayon watched as even the Wolves ran. They were willing to die to see him and all other sons of Prospero fall with them, but apparently being trapped inside the Eye was a different story altogether. The advance of the Warp was fast, unimaginably so considering the vast distances involved, but even so, there was time for the Imperials to escape.

There, amidst the ruins of Cadia, remained the Black Legion. They had taken losses, but they remained mighty, and the Imperium had left plenty of resources behind. The broken pieces of Cadia could be plundered for materials, and there were hulks that could be refitted, and plenty of bodies for the Necromancer to bind to his will. But for now, Khayon let himself close his eyes, and rest.

It was done.

The Cadian Gate was closed. It wasn't _gone –_ the energies of the Warp simply weren't as present here as elsewhere in the Eye, and it might be possible for one of sufficient power to open it again. But that was why Khayon still needed the Black Legion. As he had told the Imperium, he would hold the Gate against all who sought to leave the Eye of Terror. The Illuminated Empire was sure to respond to his betrayal soon – he had been able to hide his presence in the Rings and his attack of the Black Crusade, but there would be no hiding _this_ from the Crimson King … or anyone else in the Eye, really. With any luck, the disturbance caused by the closure of the Gate would buy them the time they needed to fortify. And there was no need to rely on luck to _know_ that, after such a monumental setback, the always-fragile alliance of the Dark Gods would be shaken …

Something pressed at Iskandar's consciousness. A voice, seeking to get through his much-battered mental shields. It was urgent, and full of concern.

 _Sekhandur ? Sekhandur, are you alright ? Answer me, apprentice !_

… Who was this, wondered Iskandar ? Why did that voice sound like it knew him ? It was coming from the _Tlaloc_ , where his sister was, but he couldn't recognize it …

… Why couldn't he recognize it ?

* * *

AN : Well, that's it then. RIP Cadia. At least this time the Imperium didn't have to send trillions of Guardsmen to the meat grinder before the planet was destroyed.

If you are thinking that the metaphysics behind closing the Cadian Gate sound a bit wonky, I have only one thing to say to you : Warp and Old One/Necron tech. Not even GW are sure what the Cadian Pylons are, so I can damn well say that destroying Cadia without destroying all the other worlds Abaddon destroyed in canon during the previous Black Crusade as that effect.

The next chapter will be Magnus' reaction to all of this, and that of the Illuminated Empire and the Eye of Terror at large afterwards. I am going to focus on finishing this story for now. Afterwards, I have several ideas that are currently fighting for my attention, so I can't make any promises. I would like to also finish Warband of the Forsaken Sons, but we will see how it goes. I might post a poll or something later on so that you can help me choose (all of these ideas are for relatively shorter, self-contained stories).

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was longer than usual for this fic (though those of you who read my Roboutian Heresy fic are probably rolling your eyes at that, after the 50k monster that was the last chapter of _that._ But I don't think breaking it into smaller parts would have worked. Anyway, leave a comment/review if you enjoyed it or have questions, and I will see you all next time.

Zahariel out.


	67. One More Fall

On Sortiarius, Argel Tal, the Crimson Lord, Bound Angel, Lord of the Seventeenth Legion and Daemon Prince of Chaos Undivided, was on his knees. All around him were thousands of warriors clad in red and crimson : the survivors of the World Eaters and Word Bearers he had brought to Drol Kheir, all of them brought to their knees as well. In the sky, he could feel the presence of the two Legions' combined fleet, every ship locked on by the guns of the Planet of the Sorcerers' mighty orbital defenses. Despite the distance, he could almost taste the fear of the crews, left at the mercy of the Illuminated Empire with their transhuman overlords down below.

They remained there for days – weeks, perhaps. Held on their knees, unable to move, basking in the wrath of Magnus the Red. From atop his Tower he looked upon them, his eye examining each of their soul in turn. World Eaters who had fought on the walls of the Imperial Palace and butchered their kin on the fields of Isstvan III without hesitation cried out like children under that gaze. Most of the time, the Cyclops' gaze eventually turned aside, and the Legionary would collapse in relief, before being hurled back to his knees by the Daemon Primarch's indomitable will.

A few warriors, however – both from the Word Bearers and the World Eaters – simply vanished, removed from the field and taken to an unknown location, to an unknown fate, for some unknowable reason. One in twenty, perhaps, but with the number of warriors brought to their knees, even that fraction wasn't insignificant. Their disappearance added to the tension among those who remained, for whatever had befallen their missing brothers, they doubted it was pleasant.

Argel Tal felt the gaze of Magnus fall upon all of his warriors before it finally turned on him. The moment the Primarch's attention focused on the Crimson Lord, he was taken from his place among his brothers and transported to the top of the Tower, a flat disc of obsidian so high above the surface of Sortiarius that it seemed one could reach up and touch the Nine Suns – and perhaps one could indeed, when the alignment of the stars was correct.

Magnus stood with his back turned to Argel Tal, and the Daemon Prince nearly collapsed at the sudden release from the weight of the Cyclops' gaze that had kept him on his knees for the last weeks. The Primarch had changed since the Bound Angel had seen him last, an eternity ago, before Lorgar had taken his first steps on the path to damnation. He was tall, taller even than Argel Tal, and two great feathered wings rose from his back, red and blue and other colors for which there was no name in any mortal tongue. The winds that raged across the platform and whispered the dying words of betrayers into the air did not ruffle these wings in the slightest.

The Primarch was as great and terrible as Argel Tal had ever seen him, and yet there was something … _wrong_ in his aura. It was subtle, but it was there, visible to one cursed with the Bound Angel's unholy senses, even if he could not identify it.

Argel Tal remained on his knees, and waited. Eventually, Magnus spoke.

'I called Ahriman here once, during the rebellion,' said the Crimson King in a calm and measured voice. 'He was searching for a cure to the flesh-change, while I remained focused on the war, trying to decide our course while my very soul fell apart. I told him to abandon his quest; that I had once walked the same path he did then, and that any salvation he thought he could find would only be a lie. In my pride, I did not believe he could succeed where I had failed. I see much more clearly now than I did then, but I am wise enough not to think myself omniscient or infallible.'

Images flared in the air around the Daemon Primarch, conjured from his memory. Argel Tal caught glimpses of the Arch-Sorcerer standing before his father, clad in crimson war-plate. He saw the Rubric being cast, and the assembled Cabal of Ahriman as Magnus manifested before them after their great success. He saw images of the Illuminated Empire's past, present, and a few that he believed might be of its future – a future that, no matter what, would be full of blood and wonders.

'I have made mistakes in the past,' continued Magnus, 'and would avoid doing so again. I would know all sides of the issue before I render my judgment. That is why I did not simply destroy you and your little army out of hand when I was finally able to see what you did on Drol Kheir.'

He turned toward Argel Tal at last, and despite his words, his eye was blazing with barely contained fury. When he spoke again, his voice was almost a snarl :

'So explain yourself, Argel Tal. You led your brothers and cousins against my sons and their allies, despite Lorgar's promise of neutrality – a promise that had already been breached twice, once by you yourself and the second time by Erebus. You have brought the Sons of Horus to the brink of extinction and murdered a hundred of my sons, including two Exalted Sorcerers, one of them a Lord of the Illuminated Empire. What do you have to say in your defense ?'

Faced with the wrath of Magnus, most Astartes would have been overawed, unable to speak. But Argel Tal had known the torments of the Ruinous Powers, and was the plaything of the Dark Gods. He did not believe there was anything Magnus could do to him worse than what his masters had already done to him when they had made him what he was. But he did feel something like remorse for what he had done on Drol Kheir, even though it hadn't been his choice, and so he began to speak, seeking to at last explain to Magnus _why_ he had committed these crimes he was accused of.

'After your son loosened my bonds,' he started, 'I went to Sicarus. There I sought revenge on Erebus for his many sins and betrayals. The snake eluded me, and I was given his seat on the Dark Council by those who dared not oppose me. In truth, Legion Master would have been more appropriate a title for what I had become. I am something of a legend among the Word Bearers, and my _resurrection_ ', he spat the word with spite enough to poison a world, 'as one of the Gods' chosen only cemented that position. I cared little about the influence it gave me, save as a way to purge my Legion of Erebus and Kor Phaeron's poison. I tried to stop the feuding and the factions, to unify the Seventeenth as much as it could be in Lorgar's absence. I did have _some_ success; I stopped a cabal from engineering the extermination of non-Colchisian born within the Legion.'

Magnus shook his head in disgust. 'Foolishness,' he said. 'Such a waste that would have been.'

'Indeed. Kor Phaeron was involved in it, I am sure, but I could find no evidence and was forced to let him survive, though I made sure he knew my eyes were on him now. Then I learned of the war between you and the Slaaneshi Host, and one of the Apostles learned that Erebus had sided with Fulgrim. Then I learned of his shameful defeat, and I saw my chance. Already my chains were tightening once more : I thought that this was my last opportunity to complete my revenge. I called upon my old comrade Khârn, who was as changed as I in his way. Our reunion was … tense, but eventually he recognized me. For all that they hate him for what he did on Skalathrax, the sons of Angron nearly worship him, and the promise of finishing off the Emperor's Children was an equally powerful lure. The Twelfth Legion flocked to our banner, and together we set forth for Drol Kheir.'

'If that truly was your intent,' asked the Cyclops, ' then when did you decide to betray us ?'

'I _decided_ nothing, lord Magnus. We were almost at Drol Kheir when my masters yanked my chain. They sent the daemon known as Kairos Fateweaver, who materialized aboard my flagship and commanded me to attend him, drawing upon authority granted to him by the Dark Gods themselves. In front of all my subcommanders, he told me that Eidolon and Erebus were already dead, and that it was the will of the Pantheon that we kill Iskandar Khayon and all who stood with him. I demanded to know why, even though I knew I could not resist his will no matter his answer, not when he was backed by the Ruinous Powers. He told me that the Gods have chosen the Illuminated Empire as the victor of the Legion Wars, lord Magnus. It will be what you and your sons have built here that will bring about the end of the Imperium and the rise of a new age for Mankind … but only if you succeed. For Kairos had another prophecy to tell. The Oracle told me that only one being had the power to prevent the rise of the Illuminated Empire, and that was your son Khayon. And so he commanded me, in the name of the Gods, to end him before he realized that possibility.'

'In the end, however, I did not kill your sons, though such was my purpose. The _Tlaloc_ vanished through sorcery before it could be destroyed, and Khayon fell into the depths of Drol Kheir while I battled his most powerful familiar. That daemon vanished soon after the Necromancer, and I was engaged by Captain Abaddon immediately. Their fates afterwards were in the hands of the Gods.'

'But they are still gone, aren't they ?' murmured Magnus, before suddenly roaring, his eye blazing with power that shook the very air between them : 'They are still lost to me !'

It was then that Argel Tal realized what it was that had been disturbing him since coming face to face with Magnus. The Crimson King was furious at him for killing his sons, yes … but he wasn't _saddened_ by their demise. Only angry that Argel Tal had dared attack what was _his_. That his actions had cost him his Necromancer, whose power guaranteed the immortality of his Legion and thus, combined with their increased power, its nigh-invincibility.

Before he could react to this sudden rush of insight, however, the heavens above the horned heads of the two Daemon Lords shuddered. A great wave of energy was coursing through the Eye of Terror, from the Radiant Worlds to the ever-increasing madness of the Core. From the war-torn plains of Eidolon to the archeo-markets of Sublime, in the machine-worlds of the Dark Mechanicum and atop the great roads of the Cerulean Concourse, all of the countless numbers of the Lost and the Damned felt it. Battlefields where armies had fought in the Blood God's name for thousands of years grew silent for a heartbeat as the combatants looked up, uncertain. The wretched souls of a billion Eldar that had been tormented without pause ever since the birth of Slaanesh felt the briefest moment of relief as the daemons born of their own excesses hesitated before returning to their joyous work. On the Plague Planet, within his vast mansion, Mortarion felt it and chuckled.

Argel Tal felt the shock twice : once as it struck the Planet of the Sorcerers, and once more when it reverberated down the chains that held him captive to the Gods' will. He felt the disquiet of the Pantheon, the unease of the Powers, and something akin to joy kindled in his infernal heart.

'Something is wrong,' muttered Magnus, staring beyond the tormented heavens, his sight cleared of all obstructions at last. For the first time since the Black Crusade had departed Sortiarius, the Crimson King could see all within the Eye once more. 'This is … Khayon ? What is he doing at Cadia ? … Wait. No, it cannot be … But … _**KHAYON !'**_

Without warning, the Crimson King leapt into the air, transforming into a comet of elemental power that coursed through Sortiarius' skies and plunged into the tumultuous tides of the Empyrean, leaving a trail of shattered thought-forms in his wake. Already shaking from the shock-wave spreading through the Eye, the daemon world reeled again from the rushed leave of its monarch. Mountains quaked and collapsed, clouds turned to silver threads and fell, clogging the streets of entire cities, and a million psykers who had had the misfortune of having been looking at the Tower of the Cyclops at that moment went blind, their eyes burned by the intensity of Magnus' power.

The blast of the Daemon Primarch's departure sent Argel Tal flying off the edge of the Tower, and he started to fall. Such was the strength of the aetheric current created by Magnus' flight that the Bound Angel could not spread his wings to arrest his fall. Such was the speed of his fall that his infernal body began to burn, leaving a trail of eldritch fire in Sortiarius' atmosphere. The Tzaangor Shamans of the Feathered Kingdoms saw the burning star fall from the Tower of the Cyclops soon after the great quake and the blast of light that had accompanied Magnus' departure, and they told their monarchs that it was an omen most foul. The Seekers in their Stellar Spire saw it as well, but they were too caught up trying to divine the meaning of the great disturbance to pay attention to it.

As Argel Tal fell, he sensed the chains of the Dark Gods tug at him, twisting his fate to their ends once more, and knew that wherever he landed, it would not be the product of random chance. And he raged at this realization, for he too had read the signs in the heavens above the Tower, and had dared to believe, for a moment, that the designs of the Gods for him may be thwarted too. But this was not to be : however recent events may reshape the galaxy's fate, his remained in their cruel hands. Such was the punishment for his betrayal, and one that, in his heart, he believed he deserved.

He crashed into the shifting plains of Sortiarius, and the strength of his fall dug a crater into the shattered earth, which the sorcerous heat transformed into razor-sharp edges of red and black crystal. Still he kept going down, turning the crater into a pit that went deeper and deeper. His descent disturbed other things that were buried beneath the surface of the Planet of the Sorcerers.

If the Crimson Lord had been able to perceive anything beyond the searing agony of his fall, he might have recognized some of these presences as having once been his comrades – those who had been "disappeared" by Magnus' judgment. Guided by the hand of the Dark Gods, the fall of the Bound Angel had dug a hole into the underground prison to which Magnus had banished them after he had been done with them. The Crimson King had displaced them through time as well as space : each had spent tens of thousands of years of subjective time buried beneath the earth, their soul exposed to the baleful energies of the daemon world. The things that crawled out of the pit in the following days bore very little resemblance to the Astartes they had once been, and the depredations they would inflict upon the neighbouring mutant tribes would soon spawn entire mythologies.

That was not all. Argel Tal was a Daemon Prince of Chaos Undivided : he was more concept than man, his soul long consumed and replaced by the power of the Warp. As such, his fall inflicted catastrophic metaphysical damage as well. Fractures in the ever-unstable reality of Sortiarius appeared within the pit, holes which led anywhere and nowhere, including outside the Eye of Terror. Psychic emanations leaked through these holes, and the imagery of an angel falling from on high and crashing into the deep dark after being judged by a wrathful god spread through dozens of civilizations across time and space. In time, even the denizens of the pit would find ways to pass through the rifts, bringing horror and suffering with them and reinforcing these beliefs.

As for Argel Tal himself, the Thousand Sons would at first assume that he had either been disintegrated by the fall and cast back into the Empyrean or had somehow been trapped at the bottom of the pit. But when Exalted Sorcerers projected their astral selves to the depths of the pit, they found no trace of the Bound Angel. There could sense _something_ lurking at the bottom of the Pit, something vast and powerful, but it certainly wasn't him. Nor was he ever heard from again, be it on the Planet of the Sorcerers, on Sicarus, or anywhere else in the Eye of Terror or beyond.

But all of this was yet to come. In the end, the creation of what would be called the Pit of the Last Angel was nothing but an unintended consequence; a small Hell created by the careless use of a Daemon Primarch's power. Such places were far from unique in the Eye, and though they provided no small amount of amusement to the Dark Gods, they were only sideshows in the Great Game.

And right now, on that grand cosmic board, it was Magnus' turn to move.

* * *

AN : Yes, I know I said this chapter would be about Magnus' reaction to Khayon's betrayal, but I kind of needed to tell what happened to Argel Tal and his army after they got teleported off Drol Kheir, didn't I ? And _technically_ , you did get the Crimson King's reaction, so I didn't lie.

Not much more to say, except that I had surgery two days ago (as part of something planned long ago, so don't worry about it) and finished writing this chapter while still taking painkillers. It is _possible_ that it affected my writing style somewhat, but I don't think it did (those are _mild_ painkillers, enough so that I could get back to work).

As usual, thanks you all for your support. Please tell me if you enjoyed this chapter and what you think is going to happen next.

Zahariel out.


	68. Kingbreaker

The Crimson King came to the ruins of Cadia in all his dark glory, at the end of a journey that caused visions and uprisings on a dozen daemon worlds. He manifested at the edge of the system as a great bird of eldritch fire, its wings several kilometers long, and beheld what had become of Cadia with his baleful eye, seeing past the layers of rock, metal and flesh and into the aether. He had expected to find a fleet stationed over the remains of a destroyed world; and while the fleet was there, Cadia itself had already been reborn, in a fashion suitable for the one called the Necromancer.

The Black Legion – Magnus had picked the name on his way there, from the whispers of the Neverborn flocking to the area – had claimed the destroyed husk of Cadia as its home. The pieces of the shattered planet were not far from one another : the integrity of the world had been destroyed by the crash of the _Truthbringer_ , but gravity and the will of the Necromancer had kept the pieces from drifting too far apart. Now there were bridges of black iron reaching across the void between these islands of floating rock, connecting the remnants of Cadia in a vast network. Tanks and trains circulated on these pathways, carrying supplies and personnel from one fortress to another.

Nearly every piece of Cadia large enough had been transformed into a fortress, and those which had not were being worked on. Though each fortress was different, owning to the size and shape of the piece of dead rock upon which it was built, they were all built in the same architectural style. Damaged ships of the Imperium and the Black Legion had been brought down to serve as the basis of gothic structures, and Mechanicus-built fortresses that had survived the planet's destruction had been repaired and refitted. The loose stones of Cadia had been reshaped by sorcery into pyramids and spires, with technology and magic combining to create artificial gravity. Three separate fortresses had been built around recovered fragments of the _Unrelenting Bastion,_ and Magnus saw that Black Templars still manned their battlements, though they had died and been reborn. It seemed that Khayon's sorcery worked on loyalist Astartes too. He filed that bit of knowledge away for later.

There were dozens of strongholds, and Magnus could sense hundreds of Astartes within each of them, as well as complex and potent wards designed to shield them from all but the greatest of sorceries. He could alse sense members of his own gene-line within every fortress – the crew of the _Tlaloc,_ spread out across the Necromancer's domain. A hundred Sorcerers, each of them keepers of the arcane protections of the stronghold to which they were assigned. They were still linked to the Rubric, and through it to Magnus himself, but that connection was shrouded. He could feel that they knew he was here, and sensed their trepidation, kept from becoming fear only by the gene-forging that had excised the emotion from them, but their deeper thoughts were closed to him.

Apart from these renegades, the souls of the Legionaries in the system were distinctively strange. Their soulfire was dimmed; not gone, but certainly weakened, and there were chains of sorcery binding every warrior to a singular presence, within the greatest fortress at the heart of the ruined world. Magnus knew immediately who this presence belonged to : the same traitor whose power blocked him from reading the minds of his sons across the system. The one who had attacked his sons and their allies as they returned from Tallarn in triumph; who had stolen the prizes that had been meant for _him_ ; and had closed the Gate to trap the Nine Legions in the Eye of Terror.

Iskandar Khayon. The Necromancer was waiting for him at the center of the world he had killed.

Anger pulsed from the Cyclops at the thought, and a handful of drifting pieces of metal from the battle shifted at the touch of his emotions, reshaped into abstract shapes of violence and destruction. He had left Sortiarius right after the shock-wave of the Gate's closure had reached the Planet of the Sorcerers, yet the Necromancer had already almost finished turning the ruins of Cadia into a fortress worthy of a Legion's homeworld. It seemed that his treacherous progeny had found a way to turn the Eye's twisted flow of time to his advantage. No matter. No walls could keep _him_ at bay.

With a single thought, his god-like form diminished in scale, becoming more suited to navigating the empty passages between bridges. He flew towards Cadia, passing by the fleet anchored in orbit of the broken world. He sensed the attention of the _Vengeful Spirit_ 's machine-spirit focus on him, as well as the composite consciousness of the _Tlaloc_ 's Anamnesis and the cold intelligences of dozens more vessels, but he ignored them all and entered the outer layer of fortresses.

A thousand guns recovered from destroyed ships were trained on the Daemon Primarch, but none opened fire as he flew between the fortresses and toward the main stronghold. If they had attacked, then the Crimson King would have obliterated them – the wards around them were potent, but not nearly enough to withstand his wrath. However, as long as they kept to tracking him, he was content not to waste his energies – he was likely going to need them before long. And those _were_ a lot of guns, with some interesting additions that could potentially have harmed even one such as him.

He hadn't come to lay waste to Cadia, though … not yet, at least. In time, of course, he would need to destroy what had been built here : the Black Legion's blatant defiance could not be tolerated, and the Cadian Gate had to be opened again if the Illuminated Empire was to fulfill its purpose and bring the truth to the entire galaxy. In truth, Magnus wasn't quite sure what he was going to do next – his mind was burning with rage such as he had rarely felt before, and it was taking most of his willpower to hold onto his aetheric form and avoid his emotions reshaping it.

He came down on a landing platform atop the highest spire rising from the stronghold, and exerted his will again. His form changed, and he took on his war aspect : a crimson giant, wearing shining armor of silver, gold and sapphire, his feathered wings beating slowly. In his right hand he held the shaft of his Blade, coursing with mutagenic energies. He hadn't used the weapon since the Siege of Terra – there had been no need for it, as the wars waged by the Illuminated Empire had required his sorcery rather than his martial prowess. In this form, he was over three times the size of a Space Marine – smaller than he had been when he had confronted Argel Tal atop his Tower, for there was no need to give too much of a target to any guns that may be hidden in the stronghold's walls.

He recognized the white-skinned warrior waiting for him at the platform's edge. The Astartes wore robes over his armor – the fabric was black, but the cut was of Prosperine design, with a mix of Prosperine, Cthonian and Colchisian runes inscribed in gold upon it. Like everything else the Black Legion had built here, it was a mix of old and new. He was unarmed, but far from harmless.

' **Ashur-Kai,'** said Magnus neutrally. He didn't ask how the Exalted Sorcerer had known where Magnus would land – such details were trivial for as adept a diviner as the White Seer.

'Lord Magnus,' answered the albino, bowing slightly – a mere fraction of the respect normally due to one's Primarch. 'Welcome to the Cadian Gate. Your arrival was expected. If you would follow me, Khayon waits for you in the throneroom. He apologizes that he cannot move from it right now.'

The Crimson King raised his eyebrow.

' **You know why I have come, don't you Ashur-Kai ?'** he asked, pointing his Blade toward him.

'Of course,' replied the Exalted Sorcerer, appearing utterly unconcerned with the deadly weapon aimed at his chest. 'From the moment we decided on our course, we knew you would come eventually. It was inevitable – I hardly needed to use my talents to predict it. You have come to punish us for what you believe is a betrayal of everything the Legion stands for.'

' **Then aren't you afraid that I will kill you where you stand, and tear this fortress asunder ?'**

The White Seer shrugged.

'I think it more likely you will want to spare your strength until you meet Khayon. And even if you killed me, my old pupil could bring me back. I don't know if he would bother to, but he could.'

That got Magnus' attention. As far as he was aware, Khayon had always been close to his mentor, even long after his tutelage under the White Seer had ended. Why would he _not_ bring Ashur-Kai back to life if the Crimson King killed him ? As they continued advancing, the Daemon Primarch examined the aura of the Exalted Sorcerer more closely. Ashur-Kai's thoughts and emotions were even more tightly protected than the rest of the Thousand Sons in the system, but Magnus' keen eye could still perceive a few things. There was sadness – a _lot_ of sadness, as if a great burden had been laid on the albino's shoulders. An undercurrent of anger as well, cold and focused.

Curiously, though, there was no dread at all in the White Seer. Only … resignation.

Ashur-Kai led Magnus through the fortress. It had been built by putting the remains of several destroyed Sons of Horus ships together on one of the biggest chunks of Cadia and merging them through sorcery into a coherent form. Such a method of construction had had unintended effects : the ghosts of the Imperial Guardsmen who had perished in the destruction of Cadia were trapped within the fortress, manifesting as humanoid piles of ash that fell apart from the pressure of Magnus' beating wings. There were thousands of them, and the two Prosperine warlords walked on a carpet of Imperial dust as they went deeper into the fortress.

' **You killed a lot of the False Emperor's servants here,'** noted Magnus. Ashur-Kai nodded.

'Yes. An unfortunate necessity – they were hardly going to believe our motivations. Still, they were sent to Cadia to keep the denizens of the Eye of Terror contained. They died in service of that goal.'

' **You used to be one of the Illuminated Empire's lords, Ashur-Kai,'** asked the Crimson King. **'What happened to turn you against us ?'**

'Khayon showed me the truth,' answered the White Seer. 'He will tell you about it himself.'

Daemon Primarch and Exalted Sorcerer came before the opened gates of the throneroom, guarded by a row of Terminators led by none other than Ezekyle Abaddon. The former First Captain of the Sixteenth Legion still wore the Talon of Horus, and his other arm had been replaced by an augmetic of black and golden metal that gleamed in the light of the torches set in the walls. While the Terminators wore tusked helmets, his head was bare, and his eyes gleamed gold as he watched Magnus approach. There was nothing left to show that Argel Tal had killed him on Drol Kheir.

Abaddon stared at Magnus for a few seconds before moving out of the way. Ashur-Kai stopped as well, and inclined his head toward the room beyond the massive double doors.

' **We will speak again soon, Ashur-Kai,'** said Magnus as he advanced.

'No,' murmured the White Seer with bitter finality. 'We won't.'

The room beyond the doors was a perfect circle, with high walls covered in the banners of Imperial Guard Regiments and all the other Imperial forces that had perished in the battle of Cadia. Iskandar Khayon sat on a throne of crystal, surrounded by arcane symbols. Magnus could feel the power that pulsed from his son, spreading through the room and beyond, to every reanimated warrior of the Black Legion. It was a vast power, far greater than anything the Necromancer had displayed before. It was also very familiar to the Crimson King, for that power had once been his. Yet there was also something more to him – another source of power, once he didn't recognize yet.

The lord of the Black Legion was alone, with his silver sword _Itzica_ drawn and held in both hands, the tip of the blade touching the ground between his feet.

' **You are changed, Iskandar.'**

'So I am told. I haven't noticed anything different – but then, I wouldn't. It's that kind of change.'

' **You know why I have come.'**

'Of course. Your master has pulled your strings and sent you here in response to me seeing through his deceptions and throwing his plans for the Legions into disarray.'

'… **How did you do all this, Iskandar ? When you left Sortiarius, you were loyal to me. You couldn't have accomplished all of this on your own. Who was it that turned you against me ?'**

The Necromancer remained silent for a moment, as if considering whether or not to answer.

'Why not ?' he muttered to himself at last. 'It was the work of several beings … but the only one you should care about was Kairos. The Oracle showed me what would happen if you won. And that was so terrible that even one such as I could not allow it to come to pass. So I did what I had to do.'

' **You betrayed me !'** roared the Crimson King, but there was no hurt in his voice. Only anger. He wasn't surprised by Kairos' involvment – he had been waiting for the other champions of Tzeentch to make their move against him ever since Ahriman's Rubric had defied his expectations. But to have one of his own sons used as the weapon by which his rivals struck at him … that stung.

'We were all betrayed,' said Khayon, unfazed by the Daemon Primarch's accusation, 'by Horus and by the Dark Gods. And we betrayed our oaths and ourselves in turn. The Imperium is better off without us. The War of the Beast proved that they already have enough to worry about.'

' **You are a fool, Iskandar,'** sneered the Crimson King. **'All the War of the Beast did was prove beyond doubt that the Imperium is rotten. Its lords are squandering my father's legacy and shackling Mankind's potential out of fear of losing their power. The empire we built has become the greatest tyranny in the history of the galaxy, a monstrous bureaucratic apparatus designed to crush the will of its citizens and preserve itself. At this point, whether this is what the Emperor intended all along or a result of our rebellion is irrelevant. _We_ are the only ones who can change things, so it is our responsibility to step up and cast down the whole corrupt edifice and build something better in its stead !'**

'We can build _nothing_ of worth while our souls belong to Ruin,' replied Khayon. 'The difference between us is that _I_ don't deny what we are, what we have all become. Once we were scholars, striving for knowledge and illumination. Now we are Sorcerers, warlocks dabbling in the darkest secrets of the universe to satisfy our own pride. I don't know when we changed, but I know that it is something not even I can undo. We belong here now, Magnus, in Hell with all the other monsters, daemons and nightmares. There is no turning back the clock, no returning to the past. None of us can _save_ Humanity. The only thing we can do is try to mitigate the damage we cause.'

' **If you will not turn from** **this** **course,'** said Magnus softly, **'if you will not relent and come back with me to Sortiarius to repent of your sins against the Illuminated Empire of your own free will, then you leave me no choice. I will drag you back there myself, and** _ **make**_ **you expiate your crimes.** **It may take a thousand years, but you will kneel before me again.'**

'My crimes are many, Crimson King, but _you_ are not the one that can judge me for them.'

' **I am your father. If I cannot judge you, then who can ?'**

'The Wolf King killed my father on Prospero,' answered Khayon, 'and the better part of his soul fell on Tallarn before I devoured it to gain its power. You are nothing but the revenant of Magnus' pride, raised from death by the God of Change to dance to his tune. You are _not_ my father.'

' **So you _did_ absorb Janus' soul-shard. And yet, I can feel another power within you – one that did not belong to me originally. Where did you find it, traitor ?'**

'Can you really not tell ? I claimed the soul-shard of Horus Lupercal that was imprisoned in the Crystal Labyrinth, Magnus. Or did you not know that the Dark Gods hold pieces of your dead brother's essence captive for their amusement ?'

That gave Magnus pause. When he spoke again, there was an edge of disbelief in his voice :

' **I did not know … but it makes sense. It happened on Molech, didn't it ? Where he stopped being merely the Warmaster and became the Chosen of Chaos. I knew he had changed when I met him again on Ullanor … But I was too preoccupied with our own course of action. So you wield the power of two soul-shards of a Primarch, then. Do you think that's enough ? Do you really think that such power will allow you to survive the wrath of the Dark Gods ?'**

'… Not two, Magnus,' said Khayon, and there was sadness in his voice for the first time. 'Three. But I am not surprised you didn't notice the power of the first shard I absorbed.'

' **Do you know what you have done, Iskandar ? Do you realize what you have become ? You are no longer a mere psyker. You have become a power of your own. You are more akin to me and Perturabo than the rest of the Legion, even with your bonds to Tzeentch severed.'**

'But there is a difference between us, Magnus. My body is still made of flesh, while the ashes of your corpse float on the winds of Prospero,' taunted the Necromancer. 'Your current form is naught by Warp-matter agreggated around what remains of your soul, held together by the strength of your will and psychic power. Elsewhere in the Eye, with the full tides of the Empyrean for you to call upon in order to sustain yourself, that would make no difference … but _here_?'

The banners covering the walls fell, revealing hundreds of broken pylons embedded into top-of-the-line Mechanicus technology that looked hopelessly primitive by comparison. At some unseen signal, the machines activated, pumping energy into the recovered pylons. Sigils that had been old before Mankind was born flickered to life, and a Null array started to expand into the room. Despite the number of pylons, such was the damage inflicted upon them and the power of the two beings in the room that it could not supress their psychic abilities completely.

But it was enough to disturb Magnus' already tenuous control. The energies that composed his body trembled at the touch of the Null field, and the fury the Crimson King had barely been able to conceal was fully revealed. His head melted and reshaped into a monstrous cyclops, with a single, enormous eye at the center of his forehead. Pieces of armor fell, revealing feathers and other mutations. As the Daemon Primarch struggled to maintain his manifestation, Khayon stood up.

'The Black Legion is at war with the Illuminated Empire,' he declared, raising _Itzica_ in a double-handed horizontal grip. 'You are not welcome here, Magnus the Red. Begone, or face my wrath !'

Magnus' response was an inhuman scream, followed by the monstrous figure charging the Necromancer. The Blade of Magnus came down, and clashed against Khayon's silver sword with a sound like the sundering of mountains. Arcs of sorcerous lightning burst from the two weapons as they ground against one another. Machinery exploded all around them, the flames casting twisting shadows that made the confrontation look even less real and more mythological in nature.

They both pulled their weapons back at the same time, before striking again, and again, and again. Every blow was blocked, and every block shook the entire stronghold. There was no fine swordplay in this battle, no exquisite technique honed by centuries of practice. Magnus was struggling to hold onto his form, and his fury left him no focus to spare for elegance. This was a brute confrontation of psychic and physical power, with the broken pylons giving an edge to Khayon.

Ultimately, that advantage was enough. With a mighty blow, the Necromancer broke through the guard of the Crimson King. _Itzica_ cut through the Cyclops' armor, already weakened by Magnus' tenuous grasp onto his form. The silver sword cut the Daemon Primarch from shoulder to hip, spilling shining ichor onto the floor. Gasping, Magnus fell to his knees, his Blade slipping from his grasp. He was gravely wounded, and combined with the field projected by the remaining devices in the wall and his own loss of control, dissolution was only a matter of time. Still, he glared at Khayon, and cursed him again :

' **You know this is not the end. Everyone knows that the Cadian Gate is the only true path out of the Eye. You will never be at peace here, even if the Illuminated Empire collapses – and it will _not._ This battle changes nothing. I will return, and bring the might of my Legion with me. Even if you defeat us, your brothers are beyond death, even without you. We will return, again and again, and you will grow weaker with every battle. You _will_ fall eventually.'**

'I am the Necromancer,' growled Khayon, pushing to the very limits of his power. 'I am the jailor of the damned, atoning for my sins with this eternal duty. I guard the Gate, and none. _May_. _**Pass**_.'

He struck, a single two-handed blow aimed at the chest of Magnus the Red. His sword burned through the Daemon Primarch as it had through the soul-shards of the Father and Horus. But Khayon could not absorb _this_ power : the Crimson King was far too powerful, too _complete._

There was a great scream, and Iskandar Khayon broke the incarnated form of the Crimson King, banishing his spirit back to the depths of the Empyrean, to drag itself back to the upper layers of reality once more. This was not a true death, for even now, after everything, the Necromancer could not end one such as Magnus the Red forever. The Daemon Primarch would return to Sortiarius, probably sooner rather than later. But by the time he clawed his way back to incarnation, everyone who mattered in the Eye would know of his defeat. The eyes of the Gods had been on Cadia as the two of them battled, and the echoes of their confrontation would spread throughout the entire Warp anomaly. What would those who feared the Illuminated Empire do when they learned of it ?

Standing in the throneroom, with an army of undead and brothers whose names he did not remember guarding him, the Necromancer laughed bitterly. He had never felt so alone, even when he had laid upon the burned earth of Prospero in the aftermath of the Rout's attack, alone and dying.

He wished he could remember the names and faces of his mortal parents. Or at least, his sister's …

* * *

AN : I know I said this was going to be the final stretch, but I have been struck by a series of ideas for what might happen now that Khayon has made his move. It's possible that I will go back on my decision to finish this story before writing anything else. What do you think ? Do you want to see more of that alternate universe, or do you think I should wrap things up ?

As always, tell me what you think of the chapter, any questions you may have, and what you think will happen next.

Zahariel out.


	69. Ringbreaker

Perturabo looked upon the Rings of Artek-Ker on a screen made of crystallized daemon blood, at an image transmitted by one of the countless eyes that had grown upon the hull of the _Iron Blood_ since the Fourth Legion's return to the Eye of Terror. The Daemon Primarch stood on the bridge of his flagship, deep within the Gloriana-class battleship, and his thoughts turned to broken alliances, failed ambitions, and future triumphs. Much of interest had happened in recent times.

Months ago, his brother Magnus had left Sortiarius, just after the entire Eye had shook with the echoes of the Cadian Gate's closure. Perturabo had been left behind – he _could_ have followed his brother, but considered doing so beneath his dignity. If Magnus had needed his help, surely he would have asked. Dealing with the renegade Khayon was best left to the Crimson King : Perturabo knew that if one of _his_ sons had betrayed him like that, he would have wanted to kill him with his own hands. Not having been able to do so to Dantioch was one of his greatest regrets.

But Magnus hadn't killed the Necromancer. Instead, his brother had returned to the Planet of the Sorcerers a broken and defeated thing, crawling out of the Empyrean and congealing back into something approaching physicality deep in the deserts of Sortiarius. There, he had called for his most loyal son, Amon, who had already found him once on the world, during the rebellion. Amon had departed the Nameless City and brought his Primarch back to the Tower of the Cyclops, where Magnus was now resting, drawing upon the energies of the Warp to restore himself. But even if the wounds Khayon had inflicted would fade in time, the damage to the Empire was much more severe.

In the end, the union of the Ruinous Powers behind the Illuminated Empire had been laughably short-lived. The moment Magnus had been cast back from Cadia by his renegade son, the Dark Gods had turned from one another once more. Champions of the Pantheon had broken their vows and taken their warbands with them, seeking to find their own glory separate from the Illuminated Empire. The Daemon Princes and their choirs had returned to their endless, pointless struggle for a supremacy that could never be achieved. Several minor dominions that had joined the Empire rather than been conquered had rebelled, seeing the Black Crusade's and Magnus' defeat as proof of weakness and their opportunity to be masters of their own fate once more.

On the three daemon worlds ruled by the Baleful Queen, a thousand daemonhosts had laid waste to the stronghold of their Astartes conquerors and restored the iron-fisted reign of that terrible monarch. During the first expansion of the Illuminated Empire, it had taken seven years to break through the defenses of the Queen and force her to surrender, but the proud Chaos Lady had never forgiven the blow that the Empire's Legionaries had inflicted to her pride.

The warband of the Severed, a host of blood-crazed warriors formerly belonging to the Twelfth Legion, had slaughtered their Thousand Sons' overseers and offered their skulls to Khorne, though the souls of the sons of Magnus had been saved from the Blood God's grasp by the power of the Rubric. The Severed weren't led by any champion of note – they were fully lost to the Nails, driven only by the terrible bloodthirst of the War God himself. Even the Thousand Sons they had killed felt it hard to blame them for their brutal murder, though it did make Khorne's displeasure clear.

The world of Karyalos had been brought into the fold of the Illuminated Empire without the envoys having to shed a single drop of blood. But now, the ministers of the Karyalos Coalition had spent three days and night in session within their Parliament of Whispers. After half of them had been murdered by the other half following the complex procedures described in the planet's centuries-old charter, the Coalition had seceded from the Illuminated Empire with a single, very polite astropathic message carried through the tides of the Warp by the death-cries of the opposition.

There were still warriors of other Legions on Sortiarius and the other worlds claimed by the Illuminated Empire. But many of the Illuminated Empire's cohorts from the rest of the Nine Legions had been part of the Black Crusade, and few of the survivors of the Black Legion's ambush had been willing to return to the Planet of the Sorcerers in abject defeat.

The Halls of Resurrection were running at full capacity to bring back the Thousand Sons who had been lost in the Crusade – the former Exalted Sorcerer Sanakht had been among the first to be returned to life, his soul fused with a newly cloned body grown from the genetic samples that had been taken from every warrior pledged to the Illuminated Empire. After recovering from his traumatic ordeal, the swordsman had shed more light on the ambush that had destroyed the Black Crusade fleet. Despite the best efforts of Amon, the story had still leaked across the planet, causing yet more confusion and desertion.

Fabius Bile had returned to Sortiarius aboard the _Pulchritudinous_ a few days later, and after a short audience with Magnus and Perturabo, the Clonelord had gone back to his laboratories, eager to resume his study of the shape-shifters he had brought back with him. The Chief Apothecary had avoided any accusation of abandoning his comrades to the Black Legion with a gift to the Daemon Primarchs : Ahriman's own dagger, which had been used in the grand sacrifice that had awakened the Cursus on Tallarn. The Black Staff of Ahriman was lost, shattered into a thousand pieces that had been spread out among the Sorcerers of the Black Crusade, and many of them were in Khayon's hands now. But the dagger had been imbued with great power of its own through the thousands of tainted souls it had offered in sacrifice. That gift, and the promise of making the shape-shifters into an even more useful tool for the Illuminated Empire in the future, had spared Fabius from facing the wrath of Magnus for returning where so many of his own sons had perished.

The union between the Fourth and Fifteenth Legions was still strong. Perturabo had ordered it so, and his sons had obeyed, no matter their own thoughts. Magnus may have failed to keep his part of the bargain, but he had not _betrayed_ Perturabo. The Lord of Iron had looked upon the broken form of his brother as he returned from Cadia, and known that this was no ploy of the Crimson King : he had truly been betrayed by one of his own, and now the Cursus was lost.

The weapon that would have granted them power over the Gods themselves had been destroyed, and the only stable route out of the Eye of Terror had been sealed at the same time. Some of the Exalted Sorcerers were already researching a mean to open the Cadian Gate again, which in Perturabo's opinion was putting the cart before the grox, since they didn't even know if they could conquer the Necromancer's defenses. This "Black Legion" he had raised from the dead of Drol Kheir sounded impressive even to Perturabo, who was not easily impressed, even for a Primarch.

Before his betrayal, Iskandar Khayon had been acknowledged as the most powerful psyker in the Fifteenth Legion after Magnus himself and Ahriman. Now Ahriman was gone, lost to the Warp in the final moments of the Black Crusade, and from what Magnus had told Perturabo, Khayon had dramatically increased his power, to the point that he had been able to match the Crimson King's might. With thousands of Astartes, scores of ships, the _Vengeful Spirit_ and who knew what else, Cadia was not going to be easy to take – though Perturabo knew that he could find a way, in time.

But they could still have victory, and vengeance. And the Illuminated Empire, however shaken, remained their best chance to get it. He had to admit, to himself and no other, that he had been tempted to call off the alliance – to return to Medrengard, to his fortress, alone with his thoughts. But in the time since his brother had dragged him off Medrengard, he had come to, if not enjoy, then at least _appreciate_ the company of others once more. More than that, the fires of ambition, which he had thought had been drowned with Horus' fall, had been kindled in his breast once more. Before Magnus' coming, he had been content to remain on Medrengard, bitterly satisfied that at last he had proven himself superior to his old rival Dorn at the Iron Cage.

The Cyclops had offered him hope that the Imperium may be defeated after all, and it was hard to abandon that hope and return to his isolation. The Lord of Iron had transcended mortal emotions long ago, but even so, after wielding his power once more, he was finding it difficult to put it down. The rivalries and feuds between his sons that had kept him entertained paled in comparison to what the Illuminated Empire was doing.

Besides, it had been the first time Perturabo had seen Magnus so furious. No matter how weakened the Cyclops was now, the Lord of Iron felt that it would be a singularily bad idea to break faith with him now. Once, Magnus had been the mightiest of all Primarchs in personal power – save perhaps for Sanguinius, whose true nature had never been quite clear. No matter how low he had been brought, Perturabo knew that in time his brother's star would rise again. The Fifteenth Legion had survived Prospero and the flesh-change : compared to these catastrophies, Khayon's betrayal was only a setback.

At the very least, mused Perturabo, running the Illuminated Empire wouldn't be _boring_. Even their present assignment promised to offer some amusement, and perhaps even a test of his skills.

' _ **Are they still hailing us ?'**_ he asked the machine-bound creature that served as the _Iron Blood's_ shipmaster. Once, it had been a man – now it was something else entirely. But it still had the torso and head of a human, and when it answered Perturabo's query, its voice was singularily unaltered.

'Yes, lord. They haven't stopped trying to contact us since we first entered the system.'

The first ships of Perturabo's fleet had reached Artek-Ker two days ago, and minutes prior, the last vessel had emerged from the madness of the Eye and taken its place alongside the rest of the Illuminated Empire armada. From the moment the _Iron Blood_ had appeared at the head of the first group, the hereteks of the Rings had tried to communicate with them, growing increasingly desperate as the Illuminated Empire refused to reply to their hails. Perturabo had ordered a complete silence, until the fleet was gathered in its entirety. Now, at last, that time had come.

' _ **Then it is time I answer them. They deserve to know why they are about to die.'**_

Since ascending to daemonhood, Perturabo hadn't needed to use his powers often. He had built his Fortress of Hate on Medrengard using them, and again to follow Magnus to Sortiarius and break the incarnate form of Fulgrim. But with his Legion still firmly bound to his will, the Lord of Iron had had no need to resort to the plethora of petty tricks that were one of the many advantages of his new status. As a result, there were plenty of theories circulating among the Iron Warriors regarding the nature of the powers that had been bestowed upon their Primarch.

All of his life, Perturabo had had an affinity for technology. His transformation had refined that gift into an absolute dominion over weapons, and secrets for which the Dark Mechanicum would have gone to war coursed through his Warp-infused flesh. He called upon this power now, and forced his words through the Rings. Every vox-speaker spat them into the air, and every tech-thrall equiped with a communication implant heard them booming into its mind.

' _ **I am Perturabo,'**_ he said to the Rings of Artek-Ker, and let that name speak for itself – he had no need to grandstand by listing all his titles. After a few seconds, he continued : **_'The Rings have broken their accord with the Illuminated Empire. You have granted aid to our enemies, and taken their coin as payment. For this, you shall now be punished. Surrender or fight, it makes no difference to us. There shall be no mercy for those who betray the true masters of the Eye.'_**

He ended his brief speech, returning his awareness to his incarnated form on the bridge of his flagship. As he was about to give the order to begin the attack, there was a convulsion within the mix of flesh and metal that served as the bridge's main hololithic projector. Sparks and geysers of blood and oil erupted from the machinery as hereteks and Warpsmiths tried to locate the source of the problem. Then, with a noise like the dying breath of a great beast, an image of Kelbor-Hal appeared. This was not the former Fabricator-General as he was, but as he had been before : Perturabo recognized the aspect in which Kelbor-Hal had been present aboard the _Vengeful Spirit_ , in the final days before the beginning of the Siege of Terra.

' _ **Primarch Perturabo,'**_ spoke the apparition, in a voice like the gnashing of teeth and the breaking of nails on stone. _**'I understand your anger, but it is misplaced. We were deceived by the traitor Khayon. We believed he still followed the cause of the Illuminated Empire when he came to us. Of course, we are prepared to negotiate to offer compensation for our error ...'**_

' _ **No,'**_ cut Perturabo, reaching out to the machines and feeling the strand of corrupt data through which Kelbor-Hal was controlling the hololithic projector. _**'There is nothing to negotiate about.'**_ With a pulse of his will, he severed the connection, and the image of the Arch-heretek vanished.

The truth was that the Illuminated Empire needed a victory more than it needed whatever Kelbor-Hal could offer as an apology for his unwitting betrayal. They needed to show to the rest of the Eye that they were still a force to be reckoned with, before the vultures descended upon them. Even after the loss of the Black Crusade force, the Illuminated Empire remained more than a match for any of the other powers of the Eye of Terror. But a coalition of their enemies might succeed where none could do so alone, especially with Magnus indisposed and unable to match his sorcery against that of the would-be conquerors. Perturabo understood this, and he knew that, among the lords of the Illuminated Empire, he alone held the power and ruthlessness needed not to just crush the Rings, but to make their destruction a statement that would make anyone think twice before attacking.

He also had no patience to deal with the situation on Sortiarius. Every denizen of the daemon world could sense the weakness of Magnus in some measure : the very land was reacting, unchecked Change spreading without the will of the Crimson King to hold it at bay.

Merkarad, the City of Nine-Hundred-And-Ninety-Nine Daemons, had fallen to anarchy as the Neverborn within threw off the shackles of Magnus' laws and waged open warfare upon one another. One of the Twelve, the mightiest Daemon Lords within that city had tried to breach the Antharian Gate, seeking to gain the forbidden lore of Ezyrthin for itself. The daemonist Ctesias had met that army in person, and when Perturabo had left, the essence of the horde's survivors was being added to the Gate. Armies had been dispatched to Mekarad itself, and the city was besieged while Exalted Sorcerers worked to restore Magnus' bindings upon the hundreds of daemons inside.

In the Nameless City, beggars and vagabonds woke from their sleep with their minds filled with images of themselves ousting the Crimson King and replacing him as master of Sortiarius. The wretches also awoke with the iron-clad conviction that the key to what they think is their inevitable ascension laid within the abandoned Silver Tower of Ahzek Ahriman. The Spire Guard had been forced to put defenses around the lair of the Arch-Sorcerer to keep these mad pilgrims from blindly wandering inside and risk unleashing whatever power caused the strange noises coming from it.

These were but two examples of the chaos raging upon the Planet of the Sorcerers right now, and it was better for Perturabo to let Amon and the rest of the Council deal with that.

His task was to remind everyone in the Eye that while Magnus may have been defeated, Perturabo still stood, and the Lord of Iron remained undefeated, the last of the rebel Primarchs to have won a battle against the Imperium at the Iron Cage. The Neverborn may claim that Fulgrim had killed Guilliman, but that had been the result of an ambush that had sacrificed the remaining followers of the White Naga to set up, whereas Perturabo had crushed Dorn's pride and warriors completely.

At Perturabo's command, the fleet of the Illuminated Empire began its advance. Perturabo had arranged his attack so that the ships would go between the Rings, passing amidst the mind-bendingly vast void that separated them. The strongholds of the outermost Ring, armed with weapons designed by madmen to be able to cross these vast distances, began to open fire, swiftly returned by the long-range lances of the battleships. The threat of Perturabo's words had, at long last, managed to unite the warring factions of the Dark Mechanicum against a common enemy.

The last war for the Rings of Artek-Ker had begun.

The fleet of the Illuminated Empire was mighty, but the Rings were home to literally billions of troops. Kelbor-Hal's control of the thirteen Rings wasn't total, and never had been, but the Arch-heretek had countless lives to throw in the path of the Daemon Primarch. Fortunately, Perturabo had known all about the Rings' defenses in advance, and had prepared appropriately.

Besides the _Iron Blood_ , the fleet was composed of dozens of Iron Warriors' warships and an entire contingent of twenty-seven Silver Towers. The Lord of Iron had spoken to the Exalted Sorcerers before they had begun their journey to Artek-Ker, and with their help he had woven a plan to break the Rings and display the might of the Illuminated Empire to the entire Eye of Terror. As the ships Kelbor-Hal had mustered to oppose the attackers engaged the enemy and the void between the Thirteenth and Twelfth Rings was filled with detonations and painfully bright lights, the Silver Towers gathered around the _Iron Blood_ , following arcane patterns while within each of them, a son of Magnus led a choir of Thrall Wizards into a complex ritual.

At the precise time Perturabo had calculated, the rotating Rings aligned in such a manner that there was nothing betwee, the _Iron Blood_ and the blue singularity at the core of the system. Right then, the Exalted Sorcerers sent bursts of energy toward the flagship, where Perturabo received and wove them into a singular spell that he unleashed at the singularity. Not even the Lord of Iron knew the nature of the strange phenomenon, but he knew how to break it. From across the system, Perturabo disturbed the cosmic energy laying within the singularity, unleashing it in a single cataclysmic blast.

The First, Second and Third Rings were completely obliterated, reduced to cosmic dust by the explosion. Most of the Fourth and Fifth Rings were also scoured clean, and every Ring broke apart, even the Thirteenth, which was barely affected by the detonation. It seemed that Perturabo's theory that the Rings' unnatural existence had been sustained by drawing upon the singularity's properties in some way was correct, after all. The pieces of the Rings floated in the void, and on the larger pieces, entire forge-cities remained more or less intact, cut off from the rest of the system if they did not have a spaceport available. In one fell swoop, the Lord of Iron had killed Kelbor-Hal and the bulk of the Dark Mechanicum's leadership, and turned the united Rings into a vast number of isolated dominions. Now, after such a dramatic first move, it was time to conquer.

Perturabo scanned the closest pieces of the Rings large enough to be worth claiming. Within minutes, his first orders reached the armies he had brought with him. Their assignments given, the forces of the Illuminated Empire set forth toward their targets, ready to begin the years-long task of bringing the broken Rings of Artek-Ker under the rule of the Illuminated Empire.

Aboard the _Iron Blood_ , Perturabo smiled, the monstrous expression on his face going unseen by any of the crew and Iron Warriors on the deck. Such would be the fate of all who stood against him.

* * *

AN : no, this story wasn't over yet ! I am sorry that my notes at the end of the last chapter seem to have left that impression to some people. There are still two more chapters to come after this one : an annex from Ahriman's point of view, then an epilogue set in the far future.

In preparation for the latter, please tell me what aspects of Warhammer 40000 history you would like me to write about in the epilogue, showing how events were altered by the changes in the timeline. I have a few ideas, but this is going to be the big finish, so any inspiration you give me will be more than welcome.

As always, thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter. Strangely, now that I am through the planned bit of the story and back to free-styling the chapters, writing this fic is a lot easier again. Ah, well. I will try to channel that energy into my other projects once it is done.

Zahariel out.


	70. Throne of Lies

The being that had once been Ahzek Ahriman sat on his throne in the Court of Change. Once, that seat had been intended for Magnus, but that fate had been rewritten when the Rubric had succeeded, along with nearly every single one of the Architect of Fate's schemes. Perhaps the Crimson King would have had an easier time there; perhaps not. Ultimately, it didn't matter. It was the Daemon Prince Ahriman, the Arch-Sorcerer of Tzeentch, who sat on the Court, and who suffered for it.

The first and greatest part of his pain had come from the truth that had been revealed to him after the destruction of his physical form on Tallarn, where his sins had taken the shape of a mortal he had ruined and shoved him through the Hellgate. Freed from the limitations of his body, he had been shown the truth of what he and his Legion had become. The words Janus had hurled at him before his doom had found him had been revealed to be completely accurate. He was a monster, allied to and serving other monsters, and the goal for which he fought was a hideous nightmare that would drag all of Mankind into madness and eternal torment at the hands of Chaos.

He had not taken that revelation well. The screams of horrors of Ahriman had echoed across the Crystal Labyrinth, and the few wandering dreamers unlucky enough to hear them had awoken mad, their souls scared by a terrible grief they could not understand. The Court of Change had been filled with the mocking laughter of the Lords of Change as they beheld the torment of their new peer. Only Tzeentch himself had remained silent, watching as events unfolded in the Eye of Terror and the Materium, seemingly leading toward his ultimate victory in the Great Game.

Then, in his madness, Ahriman had glimpsed something that had apparently gone unnoticed by every other Power in the Court of Change – the faintest glimmer of hope, the possibility that the Illuminated Empire's destiny may be thwarted. He had latched onto that possibility, dragging himself out of despair while pretending he was still mad to keep the others from noticing the change. He had watched as his brother Khayon walked the corridors of the Crystal Labyrinth, his soul already transformed by the power he had claimed. Just like Ahriman's own ascension, there would be a price to pay for the power Khayon coveted, no matter his motives for doing so. But unlike Ahriman, Khayon was willing to pay the price himself instead of making entire worlds pay it for him with their blood and torment. He then had seen Khayon find and kill the fragment of Horus Lupercal's soul, and then, he had warned his brother Khayon about the attack, saving the Necromancer's life and dooming the Illuminated Empire's prospects of a quick victory.

Doing so had revealed that he was no longer despairing to the rest of the Court, and had drawn the wrath of Tzeentch upon him. He had hoped that the God of Lies would destroy him as punishment, but of course that hadn't been the case. Instead, the Great Mutator had increased the strength of his connection to the Rubric, forcing him to see everything his brothers were doing. He may have helped prevent the Thousand Sons from heralding an age of galactic damnation, but he would pay for it by witnessing every aspect of the Fifteenth Legion's own descent into corruption.

There were other, lesser but still grievous parts of his torment. The Children of Ahriman, born of the sins of his fragmented psyche across time and space, never relented in their punishment of their creator. He didn't have a body anymore, but he had the idea of one, and the more feral of the Children bit and clawed at him ceaselessly. He could hold them at bay, but only by focusing all of his power and attention on the task, leaving him unable to do anything else. And for all his faults, Ahriman had never been one to let pain keep him from doing what he believed had to be done.

And there was plenty to do. Only the most brutal of the Children were satisfied with hurting him directly : the more evolved ones knew that truly tormenting Ahriman required more elaborate methods. They might have originated from the damned souls left in the wake of Ahriman's fragments' plans to reinforce the Thousand Sons, but they had become much more. The Arch-Sorcerer had discovered that the Children had actually fused with one of the lost soul-shard of Magnus the Red : the weakest of his Primarch's parts, but still a portion of the Crimson King's own might. Imbued with the hatred and vengeance Magnus had felt toward the Wolves, his father, and his own sons for their disobedience at Prospero, the Children had become one, many-faced entity dedicated to making Ahriman suffer. And in their hate-fueled madness, they had decided that the best way to do that was to make the entire galaxy suffer as they had suffered.

One of the first and greatest feats of the Children was to reach back in time, all the way to Humanity's first steps on Old Earth, and torment the shamans of the first tribes with visions of their evil while whispering their maker's name. Through their work, the name of Ahriman was and always had been associated with the source of all evil in one of Humanity's eldest faiths – a petty blow, perhaps, but one that struck far more painfully in the Realm of Souls. The souls of those who had died cursing the name of Ahriman as the entity responsible for their suffering haunted the Arch-Sorcerer, their dying curses forming a choir that never stopped screaming in his ears.

So Ahriman did his best to oppose the Children, to keep himself from going truly, completely insane as much as for any other reason. He endured the pain as fangs and claws forged from the pain of burning worlds bit into his aetheric body, and cast his mind across the galaxy.

He whispered into the minds of the few Sons of Horus who had remained on Maeleum, revealing to them the betrayal that had struck down their First Captain and the fate that awaited them should they remain on the planet. They fled just before the retribution fleet of the Illuminated Empire arrived, and vanished into the Eye, carrying with them the body of their Primarch. These most loyal Sons of Horus now dwelled within one of the Eye's most isolated regions, guided there by Ahriman's hand. Only the most devoted to the dead Warmaster had remained on Maeleum, and now they were determined to guard his corpse from the hands of any who would desecrate him. In time, the Eye would change them, alter their bodies to reflect the truth of their souls and make them more suited for that great duty they had taken upon themselves. A Primarch's body was a prize like few others in the Eye of Terror, and with Bile working for the Illuminated Empire, there was no telling what the Pater Mutatis might achieve if he got his hands on such a unique sample.

Ahriman would have preferred that Horus' remains be destroyed, but he didn't have enough influence on the Sons of Horus' leader, a warlord named Drecarth the Sightless, to manipulate him into an act so anathema to his nature. All he could do was help him remain hidden, now that all across the Eye the hunt for the remnants of the Sixteenth Legion was raging in full force. Details of what had transpired at Cadia were rare – few understood the true nature of the Black Legion – but it was known that Abaddon, the First Captain of the Sons of Horus, now stood at the side of Iskandar Khayon, the arch-renegade of the Thousand Sons. Warbands of the Illuminated Empire sought to vent their anger at being denied the exit of Hell on survivors of the Sons of Horus, and the rest of the Eye's vultures were all too eager to pick on the bones of such a fallen giant.

Saving the body of his uncle from desecration was one of the few things Ahriman did within the Eye. The Children focused their efforts on the Imperium, wanting to torment untainted humans rather than the scum of the Lost and the Damned, knowing that it made their maker suffer far more. So Ahriman also spent most of his power outside the Eye of Terror. He reached out to those humans whose psyches most aligned with his own, inspiring them to rise against the Children's own mortal pawns. He manifested in the dreams of Farseers on a dozen Craftworlds, giving them insight into the future as seen from places the Eldar dared not thread. Even in the Inquisition, a small Radical faction calling itself the Ahrimanites formed, using the gifts of the Arch-Sorcerer to battle Chaos.

And all the while, Tzeentch watched from his throne, and smiled at the spectacle.

* * *

AN : Don't make deals with Chaos, kids. This is what will happen to you _if_ you are smart and powerful enough to have the misfortune of drawing the eye of the Dark Gods upon you.

There is plenty of potential for short stories, or even full fics, written about the contest between Ahriman and the Children. Entire worlds are at stake when the Arch-Sorcerer and his misbegotten creations fight each other. If you have ideas for such stories, don't hesitate to send them to me, or even write them yourselves.

I have already received a lot of suggestions for the epilogue. Keep them coming, please : I don't want to forget anything. Of course, as a result, it's going to take longer to write it, but I think it's worth it : this fic deserves a proper send-off.

Zahariel out.


	71. Epilogue

An age passed. One by one, thousands of years ticked by, until ten millennia had gone since the day Horus had struck down the Emperor and been struck down in turn. And during all that time, Iskandar Khayon and his Black Legion had held Cadia, keeping the armies of Chaos trapped within the Eye of Terror, with no open gate to bring them back to the Materium in massive numbers.

Yet even so, it had not been an age of peace. The galaxy was a dark place, filled with threats old and new, and while the Traitor Legions may be contained within the Eye, the Ruinous Powers that owned their souls were not so easily thwarted. After a few assaults on Cadia by warbands seeking the glory of taking the Necromancer's heads had all ended in abject failure, the Dark Gods had mostly turned their gaze away from their failed champions, leaving the Lost and the Damned to their own devices. Across the galaxy, cults of the Ruinous Powers rose, and the warriors of the Adeptus Astartes Chapters were tempted into following Horus' path.

The Duumvirate of the Crimson King and the Lord of Iron separated their duties : Perturabo would expand and protect the Empire's dominions within the Eye of Terror, while Magnus would search for a way to return to the Materium and a council of lords, led by the Exalted Sorcerer Amon, would manage the ruling of Sortiarius itself. With the Cadian Gate held by the Kingbreaker, Magnus turned his gaze to other avenues by which the Illuminated Empire could leave the Eye. One of the means he investigated was to use the Webway, that ancient network of portals scattered through the galaxy that used the Labyrinthine Dimension as a short-cut across the stars.

Once, the galactic region that had become the Eye of Terror had been the heart of the Eldar Empire, and though the vast majority of the Webway Gates it had contained were shattered with the birth of Slaanesh, many still remained open. Most of them, however, were in the control of potent daemons, and led only to utterly corrupted and sealed-off sections of the Webway. At Magnus' command, dozens of Sorcerers explored the Eye, searching for hidden Webway Gates, compiling their discoveries and bringing them back to the Tower of the Cyclops, where the Daemon Primarch assembled perhaps the most complete map of the Webway in existence.

With this map, Magnus conceived of a great plan to bypass the Cadian Gate entirely and bring the Illuminated Empire to the rest of the galaxy. Deep within the Webway laid the Dark City of Commoragh, domain of the Dark Eldar, these ancient xenos who appeased the hunger of Slaanesh for their souls through the suffering of others. Under the rule of the Houses, the nobility of that cruel race, the Drukhari preyed upon the rest of the cosmos, launching raids into realspace to capture slaves to torture in order to delay their own inevitable doom. A thousand years after his defeat at Khayon's hands, in what the Imperium called the 35th Millennium, the Crimson King launched an assault upon the Dark City. His goal was to capture it and turn it into a staging ground from where the Illuminated Empire would be able to strike at will anywhere in the galaxy.

The Dark Eldar nobles had spent millennia safe within their domains, the only threat they faced being the power plays of their own kind. They had grown arrogant, believing themselves untouchable, and not without good reason : after all, many of them had survived the Fall itself from their palaces of pain in Commoragh. Having survived the doom of their entire Empire and nearly their species, it was impossible for them to conceive of anything that could threaten them within their refuge. But they were wrong. For several decades, Magnus sent Sorcerers to secretly study the many, _many_ wards that protected Commoragh from daemonic incursions. Once, the Eldar had been the most powerful psychic race of the galaxy, but since the Fall, the denizens of the Dark City had forbidden the use of psychic powers, lest they draw the attention of She-Who-Thirsts. They still knew how to maintain and replace the wards, but the actual practice of sorcery was one of the few things that would unite all the noble Houses against whoever had dared to endanger the whole City.

That lack of innovation was probably why Magnus eventually managed to figure a way to break through the wards and unleash an army of daemons, mutants and Chaos Marines upon Commoragh. The Houses were decimated, but they eventually managed to rally enough forces to force the incursion back. Commoragh was left ravaged by the weapons used by both sides of the conflict, with billions of Dark Eldar left dead in the ruins. Soon, the Houses were overthrown, as a new order rose, led by one Asdrubael Vect. Instead of a few lineages ruling by right of their ancient blood, merit became the way by which one rose through the ranks of the Kabals. This new order allowed the Drukhari to launch a vast campaign of plunder across the galaxy in order to secure the resources and slaves they needed to rebuild. For an entire century, despite their numbers having dangerously diminished, the depredations of the Dark Eldar were higher than ever before. Imperial historians came to call this period the Century of Woes, such was the cruelty of the Dark Eldar raiders.

Though that particular endeavour only resulted in indirect damage to the Imperium, there were others way for the Illuminated Empire to inflict its evil upon the Emperor's dominion. In his laboratories on the Planet of the Sorcerers, Fabius Bile refined the unnatural essence of the shape-shifters he had brought back with him from Tallarn, creating a new, improved lineage of the cursed beings. After several years of tests and experiments, Bile set his new creations upon the task of exterminating the previous breed of shape-shifters, proving their superiority over them in a fratricidal war that ended with the slaughter of the surviving Ancients, who had served the aims of the Illuminated Empire for millennia only to perish once the Clonelord judged them to be no longer of use. Then, with the help of several Exalted Sorcerers, portals were opened leading to sites of power across the galaxy, and the new shape-shifters were scattered across the stars. Many perished within the first few days, or found themselves stranded on alien worlds of no value to the Empire, but a few were delivered to human worlds. There they spread their gift to others. In most cases, such lineages hid in the shadows, working in secret to weaken the Imperium from within. But on a few worlds, the shape-shifters spread like a plague, transforming millions in mere months before revealing themselves in bloody, nightmarish uprisings. Entire systems fell to such inhuman revolts, before being purged in fire by the Inquisition, which scoured whole planets to cleanse this scourge.

The promise of eternal life drove many to willingly serve the shape-shifters, in the hope of being one day transformed themselves. Such vile heretics were ready to do anything to escape the shadow of death, and Tzeentch delighted in the depths to which they were al too willing to sink in order to please their inhuman masters. But the most favored progeny of the shape-shifters were those who rejected Chaos with all their heart – Fabius and Ahriman's dark gift could break the faith of all but the most devoted servants of the God-Emperor, who perished during their transformation instead of having their very soul rewritten by the power infused within the accursed "gift".

The threat of the Chaos cults and the shape-shifter infestation soon resulted in the creation of a new branch of the Holy Ordos, dedicated to hunting down and rooting out the twin cancers of corruption and heresy before it was too late. Named the Ordo Hereticus, this division of the Inquisition was a mix of witch-hunters, going about their work with great bombast and leaving behind them a trail of smoking pyres, and more subtle hunters, fighting a hidden war against the minions of Chaos. Acolytes hunted mutants and shape-shifters through the seedy underbellies of hive-cities, while Lord Inquisitors matched their wit and intrigue against that of immortal monsters.

And all the while, Tzeentch watched, and laughed, caring not whether his pawns succeeded or failed. The struggle was all that mattered to the God of Lies.

By that point, the loyalist Primarchs had all vanished. Rogal Dorn had disappeared during the Scouring, hunting down the remnants of a Word Bearers force in the Halo Stars. Russ and Corax had both disappeared, going on their own hunts for their treacherous brothers. Roboute Guilliman's body had been put into stasis on Maccrage after his confrontation with Fulgrim. Vulkan had simply vanished after the Heresy, and though there had been word that he had been sighted during the War of the Beast, in the end he hadn't reappeared before Sigismund had sacrificed himself to destroy the Great Beast on Ullanor. Jaghatai Khan had been lost pursuing the Dark Eldar who had preyed upon Chogoris during the Heresy, and the Lion had fallen on Caliban, battling his own mentor turned heretic, Luther. The Imperium had lost its demigods, and in truth, there were many within it who were quite happy with that state of affairs, no longer having to dwell in the Primarchs' shadow.

On the ice-world of Fenris, the sons of Leman Russ had gathered after the Battle of Tallarn and the Fall of Cadia. The descendants of the Space Wolves who had burned Prospero had found their legends of the witches of the Fifteenth Legion proven true in the worst way possible, and though the memories of the survivors of Tallarn were confused and fractured in the aftermath of the Grey Knights' departure, they still remembered enough. For several days, the lords of the _Vlka Fenryka_ discussed their course of action, now that they knew their ancient foe still survived, and had in fact grown even more powerful and corrupt in their exile. Like the High Lords, they too had received Khayon's message, and like the High Lords, they didn't trust it at all. Plans were made for the numbers of the sons of Russ to grow, so that they might garrison the worlds around the Eye of Terror, becoming the watchdogs of Hell's borders, guarding against any future Black Crusade.

They did not know that, just as they made plans against their ancient foe, so too did that foe made plans against them. And cunning as the Wolves may be, their foes were much more so.

Though the Thousand Sons had learned that Horus was the one who had altered the Rout's orders from capturing Magnus to killing him long ago, their hatred for the Space Wolves was often undiminished. The Warmaster may have been the one who had given the order, but it had been the Sixth Legion who had slaughtered their people and destroyed their world without question. On Sortiarius, Exalted Sorcerers designed means by which they could project their consciousness beyond the confines of the Eye, possessing the bodies of their thralls across the galaxy. A cabal was formed, led by the Exalted Sorcerer Madox and dedicated to bringing ruin to the sons of the Wolf.

Playing upon the notorious barbarism of the Space Wolves and their refusal to entirely submit to the rule of the High Lords and the Inquisition, Madox managed to drive a wedge between the Space Wolves and the rest of the Imperium. His attempts to get the whole Chapter excommunicated and wiped out failed, but the dream of a great cage around the Eye manned by sons of Russ was lost.

A few hundred years after the Century of Woe, at the end of the thirty-fifth millennium, the forces of Chaos struck again at the Imperium. The shape-shifters and the cults of Chaos had spent centuries worming themselves throughout the Imperium's power structures, burrowing deep unnoticed while leaving other cults to be discovered and destroyed by the Ordo Hereticus. Using techniques perfected in the Blind City of Jerelos Prime, the agents of the Illuminated Empire slowly eroded the faith of entire worlds in the God-Emperor, causing heresies to rise and be put down with extreme violence by the Imperium. By manipulating the flow of information about these heresies and subsequent purges, the Illuminated Empire was able to slowly drive the Imperial elites to ever more drastic measures to maintain control of their population, until the time was right.

Within the Ecclesiarchy, these agents pushed for a unification of the Adeptus Ministorum with the rest of the Adepta, turning the Imperium into a true theocracy led by the priesthood of the God-Emperor. The inevitable push back by the other powers of the Imperium was carefully cultivated, alongside thousands of other petty feuds and grudges, until the entire empire was divided by a civil war unlike any since the days of the Horus Heresy itself, with both sides convinced that they were in the right, that they alone were acting as the Emperor willed. A group of powerful individuals, calling themselves the Ur-Council, was established on the world of Nova Terra, declaring themselves the true representatives of the God-Emperor and accusing the High Lords of treachery and heresy. Agents of Chaos on both sides worked to prevent peaceful resolutions and escalate things into open warfare, with the Ecclesiarchy at the center of things. The cupidity and ambition of Cardinals, who ruled over entire worlds and had entire armies of fanatics at their command, was used as an example of the Imperium's corruption. Rebellions erupted on thousands of worlds.

To further fuel the fires of civil war, the agents of the Illuminated Empire exposed the great shame of the Dark Angels. Having learned of what had transpired on Caliban during the Heresy from the Fallen who had arrived into the Eye of Terror and joined the Illuminated Empire to survive, these agitators revealed _everything_ to as many Inquisitors and Imperial nobles as possible. In that moment, they struck a terrible blow against the Dark Angels and their Successor Chapters, who for thousands of years had hunted their Fallen brethren in secret, ready to murder other Imperial servants in order to hide their ancient sin. These acts of treason were also exposed, and the fractured First Legion was called into account by the Council of Terra, while among its own numbers, the revelation of what had been kept secret for thousands of years caused great distress to the sons of the Lion. The First Legion had always been a secretive one, but now, its obsession with secret orders and layers of forbidden knowledge was on the verge of causing its damnation.

In that chaos, Cypher, the Lord of the Fallen, was revealed to be part of the Ur-council of Nova Terra, and he called for the sons of the Lion to rally to him against the tyranny of the High Lords. A great schism tore the Dark Angels and their Successor Chapters apart, as different versions of what had happened on Caliban spread and warriors came to believe that the right thing to do was to stand against the High Lords for their perceived crimes against the people of the Imperium. A full third of the Angels of Caliban's descendants rallied to Cypher's banner, joining the other Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes who had joined the Nova Terra Interregnum, believing that the High Lords had betrayed the ideals of the Emperor.

To make things even worse, the cults of Chaos that had been suppressed by the Ordo Hereticus were also on the rise. In the Eye of Terror, with Erebus dead and Argel Tal disappeared, Kor Phaeron, Master of the Faith, had solidified his hold onto the Dark Council of Sicarius. His adoptive son still withdrawn in contemplation of the Primordial Truth, Kor Phaeron was free to lead the Word Bearers. The Seventeenth Legion was trapped in the Eye along with the other Traitor Legions, but the Dark Apostles knew many rituals unknown even to the Exalted Sorcerers. Using their sorcery, they were able to inspire hundreds of Chaos Cults across the Imperium to rise, and the atrocities these cultists performed opened Warp rifts through which entire Chapters of Word Bearers were able to escape the Eye of Terror, bypassing the Cadian Gate entirely. With the Imperium already at war with itself, these hosts were able to conquer entire Sectors, establishing new kingdoms of the Dark Gods outside the Eye of Terror. Meanwhile, beyond the borders of the Imperium, xenos threats grew, with Ork Waaaagh ! engulfing planets as the greenskins multiplied unchecked, and other, less known breeds of xenos took advantage of the Imperium's weakness.

For a time, it seemed as if the Imperium was going to fall, not to the armed champions of Chaos or the numberless horde of the Orks, but to the subtle lies and manipulations of cults and deceivers turning it against itself. Then, suddenly, almost miraculously, the tide turned. The Chapter Master of the Dark Angels went to Terra with evidence of the conspiracy, buying the forgiveness of the High Lords for his Chapter's sin with proof of Chaos' involvement in the affairs of their rivals on Nova Terra. The conspiracy at the heart of the civil war was exposed, and Imperial forces came together around a core of Inquisitors and High Lords who set about restoring order to the galaxy.

No record was made of _how_ the Chapter Master of the Dark Angels obtained the evidence he presented to the High Lords. Perhaps no one cared, so dire was the situation.

Sebastian Thor rose to power among the Ecclesiarchy, purging its ranks of corrupt Cardinals with the support of the newly founded Sisters of Battle and restoring the image of the Imperial Creed in the eyes of the other High Lords once he was named Ecclesiarch himself. Thor himself led the Crusade to Nova Terra, where the Ur-Council was destroyed. The rebellious Dark Angels who refused to lay down their weapons and submit to Terra's judgement were slaughtered, with their loyal brothers leading the onslaught, but Cypher himself escaped. The battle of Nova Terra resulted in a tight relationship between the Sisters of Battle and the surviving sons of Caliban, as the former regarded the later as the Angels of the God-Emperor, while the Space Marines saw the battle as the moment they had finally thrown off the weight of their own sin and no longer needed to hide the truth from the Imperium (though the Fallen themselves still needed to be hunted down). Many of the Sisters' orders would integrate the Dark Angels in their myths and beliefs, using their story to create powerful tales of atonement and devotion to the Master of Mankind.

The Sisters of Battle, now the only armed force that the Ecclesiarchy was allowed to keep, were instrumental in purging the Word Bearers dominions across the galaxy in the ensuing centuries, cementing their position within the Imperium as hundreds of worlds owed them their liberation (once all the heretics had been purged by fire, of course). When the mad Cardinal Bucharis, a shape-shifter of immense power, was put to the sword by Saint Alicia Dominica, founder of the Adepta Sororitas, the Age of Apostasy was finally decreed to be over. The Imperium had faced the greatest threat since the War of the Beast and survived, though untold billions had perished.

With the elite forces of the Sisters of Battle replacing the unwashed masses of the Armies of Faith, the Ecclesiarchy became a more reliable participant in the Imperium's many wars. During the reunification of the Imperium and the purge of the last Word Bearers hosts who didn't manage to escape back to the Eye of Terror or flee to the Maelstrom, the lords of the Imperium discovered another threat, one that had managed to remain hidden for thousands of years. In the aftermath of the Heresy, when the Traitor Legions had fled from the Scouring, the Iron Warriors had not all followed their Primarch into the Eye of Terror. Some had remained in their own personal fiefdoms, first conquered during the Great Crusade and fully claimed during the rebellion. Cut off from the rest of the galaxy by communication blackouts and the shift in Warp routes that had followed Horus' rise and fall, these domains (sometimes vast enough to include several systems) were ruled by the Iron Warriors, who were even harsher taskmasters that the Imperium.

The first of these domains was discovered by accident (though the Warsmith who ruled it blamed it on a plot of the Word Bearers whose blind flight ended up leading them and their pursuers into his territory). Only one ship of the Imperial fleet managed to escape, and its captain was soon executed for cowardice, but the intelligence it brought back was the foundation of a centuries-long, galaxy-spanning effort to purge the Fourth Legion enclaves. One by one, the dominions of the Iron Warriors fell, the survivors scattering to lead groups of pirates, cultists and renegades, or retreating to the Eye of Terror itself, where they knelt before the Lord of Iron and rejoined the Illuminated Empire itself. Such warbands were punished harshly for their defeat, for Perturabo had relied upon the sons he had left behind to provide support when the Illuminated Empire finally broke free of the Eye of Terror and began to wage its great war against the Imperium of Man.

Even on Sortiarius, not everything went well for the Illuminated Empire. Like in the rest of the Eye, there were many who no longer cared for the prosecution of the Long War. They were content to rule in Hell, and forget about the Imperium except as a source of fresh souls. That sentiment was most represented in Nakra'Leth, the daughter-city of Al'Kyreh. The Ascended had never known anything outside the Eye, and their vaunted destiny as Mankind's replacements sounded hollow after so many generations without progress. On Sortiarius, they were masters of their own reality : why would they seek to conquer a galaxy where their psychic powers would be much less useful ?

The greatest blow to the Illuminated Empire on the Planet of the Sorcerers, however, came from a most unexpected source. A group of Night Lords, who had once been members of the Exalted's own company, turned against the Secondborn Chaos Lord. With the help of others, they broke into the Stellar Spire of the Seekers and released the seer Talos Valcoran, known as the Soul Hunter. Talos had been offered as a tribute to the Corvidae when the Exalted had arrived on Sortiarius : his unique prophetic gift had made him _very_ interesting to the seers, who had spent decades trying to understand where his visions came from. By the time his old squadmates broke him free of the Spire, the Soul Hunter had been driven to madness and back to sanity a hundred times over. His eyes burning with vengeance, Talos went to Ul'menelar, and confronted the thing that had once been his superior officer. The resulting battle reduced the Keep of Endless Night to rubble, as the great beasts dwelling in the deeps below the city rose, destroying everything in their path. Talos killed the Exalted himself before departing Sortiarius with a sizeable following of Night Lords, and had been a plague upon the Illuminated Empire ever since. The lords of Sortiarius tried to capture or kill him many times, but he always evaded their ambushes, aided by his second sight, which had been forced permanently open during his time as a prisoner of the Stellar Spire.

There were several attacks on the Cadian Gate over the ages. A bizarre code of honor started to appear in the Eye : when an army marched upon the Gate, even its most bitter foes would not oppose it, in the hope that one day, such an army would succeed and free all those trapped within Eyespace. The road leading to Cadia became something akin to holy ground, and priests of the Ruinous Powers claimed the daemon worlds on that path, establishing neutral territories where the hosts en route to Cadia could drop their anchors and resupply.

From elite strike teams to hordes of billions of cultists, from daemon legions to individual killers bursting with the gifts of Chaos, all tried to slay the Necromancer and break the Gate, and all failed. With the military genius of Ezekyle Abaddon (for though his mind was trapped in a dream-like state like that of all of the Necromancer's undead Legionaries, the First Captain's wits were still intact) combined with the sheer power of Khayon the Black, no assault upon the Gate could succeed. A graveyard of ships surrounded the ruins of Cadia, infested with scavenging teams that harvested the metal and brought the bodies to their lord for reanimation. Fear of ending up serving the Necromancer instead of killing him was enough to make even the bravest Chaos Lord think twice before challenging the Cadian Gate – especially after what happened to Thagus Daravek's attempt.

The self-proclaimed Lord of Hosts, Thagus Daravek of the Death Guard, sought to kill Khayon using sorcery to gain the upper hand. The blackened husk of his flagship was found in orbit of the Plague Planet, scoured clean of Nurglite corruption by psychic fire, with the Chaos Lord's charred skull waiting on the bridge, with the word _"failure"_ engraved in old Tizcan upon its forehead. When an enraged Mortarion tried to summon Thagus' shade to punish him, nothing answered the rituals of the Death Lord, for the Necromancer had done more than just kill the Lord of Hosts. In the next years, the seers and oracles of the Eye spoke of the new addition to the Black Legion's ranks : thousands of Astartes from the warbands that had been fighting under Thagus' banner.

In addition, despite the best efforts of the Inquisition, Khayon's message to the High Lords had spread across the Imperium. When Chaos Cults rose and the Imperium seemed powerless to help them, desperate souls remembered the Necromancer who stood against Ruin, and they called upon him for assistance. Death Priests and resurrectionist cults formed within the Imperium every so often, inspired by the legends of the Necromancer. Such groups inevitably met one of two fates : they were either purged by the Inquisition for their betrayal of the God-Emperor, or they escaped and joined the Black Legion on Cadia, helping hold the Gate against the hordes of Chaos.

During the 41st Millennium, the Imperium had to face threats both old and new. From beyond the galactic borders came the Tyranid Swarm, a tide of chitinous flesh driven by an unspeakable hunger to devour all life. The Imperium paid a heavy price to defeat the first Tyranid incursion, only to later learn that what they had thought to be the main Tyranid force had been but the vanguard of a greater invasion coming from the deep void. At the same time, the antediluvian xenos known as the Necrons began to awake within their tomb-worlds, rising from the aeon-long slumber to find the galaxy a very different place than they had left it. The divided Dynasties, led by Phaerons whose minds had rarely gone through the Long Sleep unscathed, set about restoring their lost dominions. To them, the Eye of Terror was an aberration, something to destroy with the full might of the Necron Empire – as soon as the Empire came under _their_ sole and uncontested rule, of course.

Isolated from the rest of the galaxy, the aliens called the Tau began their rise. Their lack of psychic ability forced them to develop alternate means of galactic travel. Unbound by the constraints of the Adeptus Mechanicus' prohibitions and without the constant shadow of annihilation looming overhead, the Tau were able to make great strides in technological advancement, equalling and even surpassing in some areas what Mankind had been capable of during the Dark Age of Technology. The aliens began to spread, slowly due to the limitations of their Warp-travelling technology. Several other species were integrated to the Tau Empire, all under the banner of the Greater Good. It was inevitable that the Tau would eventually encounter the darker aspects of the galaxy, and such an encounter would doubtlessly have been a great shock to their entire civilization.

But from his throne in the Court of Change, the Daemon Prince Ahriman foresaw that the Tau had the potential to become one of Chaos' great adversaries. Under his guidance, a group of Ahrimanites made contact with the Tau Empire, coming to the aid of a Tau exploratory fleet that had disturbed an ancient temple of Khorne and awakened its bloody guardians. This first contact helped the Ahrimanites establish a relation of trust with the aliens, and they taught the Tau what they needed to know about the wider galaxy – specifically, they taught them about the Imperium and its true size, as well as the threat of Chaos and its corruption. Framing their lessons in terms that the scientifically-minded Tau could understand (they didn't use the terms "daemons" and "sorcery", but "other-dimensionnal empathic entities" and "evolutionary adaptations to transdimensional exposure"), the Ahrimanites were able to convince the Tau of the danger they faced if they continued their blind expansion outward. After the Ethereal Council called the Ahrimanite envoys for a face-to-face audience, the direction of the Tau changed.

Ahrimanite agents within the Imperium would endeavour to keep the existence of the Tau a secret, and the aliens would remain within their current borders, focusing their efforts on increasing their population and, more importantly, their technological level. With the true nature of the Warp revealed to them, the Tau had decided that the Greater Good demanded that this madness be opposed in all its forms. The Tau were ill-suited to battle against the Dark Gods and their daemonic hordes, but their advanced weaponry would be very useful in battling their mortal armies. Specimens of Chaos Marines and warmachines used by the forces of Chaos were smuggled into Tau territory, where they were studied in isolated laboratories by heavily monitored Earth Caste researchers. New and improved suits of armor and weaponry was designed and field-tested, as companies of Tau warriors were taken across the galaxy by the Ahrimanites, fighting alongside their human allies both to help them in their own battle against Chaos and to collect battlefield data on their equipment's performance. To the rest of the Imperium, the Tau seemed to be just another mercenary race employed by some within the Inquisition, and the Ahrimanites kept it that way.

Then, at last, the Dark Gods grew bored of their games. Schemes thousands of years in the making were reaching their final phases, and the portents were aligning to show that the time had come once more for the Traitor Legions to rise from the depths of their prison. They turned their gaze to Cadia once more, and desired its destruction, that their servants within the Eye may unleash the evil they had spent a timeless eternity forging upon the rest of the galaxy. Perturabo crushed the last threat to the Illuminated Empire within the Eye of Terror, and the Exalted Sorcerers focused their attention upon the Cadian Gate once more. Within the Tower of the Cyclops, Magnus was finally allowed by Tzeentch to recover from the great injuries he had suffered at Khayon's hands.

All across Sortiarius, preparations were made for the final war, and there were many signs that the Gods were indeed in favor of this course of action. The gates of Al'Kyreh's and Nakra'Leth's vaults were opened, and terrifying monstrosities were dragged out in enchanted chains, locked away once more within special transport ships until they were unleashed upon the foe. In the Tombs of Unborn Empires, an exploration team sent by the Exalted Sorcerer Azhtar Manutec came back from the nine-hundred-and-ninety-ninth level transformed by what they had found down there. No longer human in the slightest, the nine survivors of the expedition had transcended into something akin to but different from Daemon Princes : they were of the Warp, but unaligned with any of the Powers as the Illuminated Empire understood them. Azhtar brought them to his Silver Tower, along with hundreds of the Tombs' scholars, who had been changed by the power of the nine beings upon their emergence, shedding their human forms to assume new aspects as their servants.

From the Pit of the Last Angel, dug by the fall of Argel Tal from the Tower of the Cyclops, came a figure of the Fifteenth Legion's distant past. The Greater Daemon Shai-Tan, whom Magnus the Red had once fought on the world of Morningstar before the Heresy, emerged, its great wings beating with the sound of a million screaming souls. It had been this creature that had dwelled at the bottom of the Pit for thousands of years, feeding on the torment inflicted upon the galaxy by the shades of the Word Bearers and World Eaters, just as it had been Shai-Tan that had destroyed Argel Tal's soul at last, the Crimson Lord meeting his end beneath the shadow of the abomination's wings. Behind Shai-Tan came the monsters of the Pit, given flesh once more by the power of Chaos. Shai-Tan flew across Sortiarius, landing before the Sword in the Stone. It drew the weapon, and the cults that had worshipped it for ages knelt and killed themselves, offering their souls to the Daemon Lord. With that power, Shai-Tan called the hosts of the Neverborn, battling the daemons of the Four before uniting a true infernal horde under its leadership, which it added to the Black Crusade marshalling around Sortiarius. Magnus confronted Shai-Tan once more atop the Tower of the Cyclops, and the beast knelt before the Crimson King, ready to fight for Chaos Undivided once more, its grudge against Magnus made irrelevant by the Cyclops' acceptance of his own place in the universe.

Tens of thousands of Chaos Marines, millions of trained Chaos soldiers, and an uncountable horde of the Lost and the Damned were gathered for this Black Crusade. Both Magnus and Perturabo took joint command, leaving Sortiarius in Amon's hands. While Perturabo was on board the _Iron Blood_ , Magnus took command of a brand new vessel, forged on the _Gift of Thot_ to the Crimson King's exacting specifications. The ship's true name was impossible to pronounce for mere mortals, but the Dark Mechanicum who had worked on its construction had named it the _Planet Killer_. It was an immense ship, designed for one purpose and one purpose only : the destruction of the Black Legion fortresses and the breaking open of the Cadian Gate.

At the Cadian Gate, the Black Legion fought against the Illuminated Empire one more time. Hundreds of ships were destroyed, until finally, the _Planet Killer_ fired. That blast was a combination of the Dark Mechanicum's heretical technology and the Crimson King's own psychic power, and it burned through the wards and walls of the Cadian blockade, shattering the pieces of the world upon which the Black Legion had built its strongholds.

At the heart of the Cadian fortresses, the Necromancer, who had once been called Iskandar Khayon but who had forgotten everything save his duty to hold the Gate, died in the fire of the Eye of Terror's ultimate weapon. His soul fell, untethered to the Rubric, and slipped between the claws of the Neverborn, turning to dust between their waiting maws. The lord of the Black Legion vanished in the flames, and neither the living nor the dead ever saw him again.

The Black Legion perished in that battle, though there were a few Death Priests who managed to escape, fleeing back to the galaxy or deeper into the Eye of Terror. In time, the Ahrimanites would find those who survived the Illuminated Empire's hunt, and add their skills to the Radicals' arsenal.

With Khayon dead, nothing remained to stop the Illuminated Empire from returning to the galaxy. Aboard the _Planet Killer_ , Magnus the Red called the mightiest of his Exalted Sorcerers to his side, as well as all the Daemon Princes who had risen from the ranks of his Legion during the last ten thousand years – save for Ahriman himself, who remained trapped within the Court of Change, his betrayal kept from his gene-sire by the will of Tzeentch himself. Together, they undid what the Necromancer had done, and tore open the Cadian Gate. From outside the Eye of Terror, it seemed that the great stain of the Ocularis Terribilis was shifting in the heavens, as the madness of the Warp receded where Cadia had once been, opening a portal large enough to be visible from a cosmic distance. Had the Eye been a natural phenomenon, it would have taken years for its light to reach these worlds and the image of the change to appear, but the Eye of Terror was a psychic nightmare, not bound by the laws of the Materium, and so the effects of Magnus' great ritual were instantly visible all across the galaxy. From distant Holy Terra to the Craftworlds of the Eldar, all psychically sensitive souls felt what the Crimson King was doing, and knew dread in their heart.

The fleet of the Illuminated Empire sailed through the rift opened by the Thousand Sons. In numbers so great that it seemed the Eye of Terror was emptying of all the damned souls within, they poured back into the Materium, emerging into realspace within the neighbouring systems of Cadia.

And there, they found the might of the Imperium arrayed against them, waiting and ready. Hundreds of Space Marine Chapters, from the sons of Caliban to the _Vlka Fenryka_ , side-by-side with billions of Imperial Guardsmen and fleets of the Imperial Navy. The Adeptus Mechanicus' great forge-ships sailed alongside the frigates of the Sisters of Battle, and the black ships of the Inquisition were there too, their hulls filled with weapons forbidden to the rest of the Imperium.

This was not all. The Eldar were there too, distant from the Imperials but still clearly on the same side. Ulthwé had come, and other Craftworlds had sent troops to take part in that great battle. The Tau were there too, a fleet carried through the Warp by Ahriman's will, their advanced weaponry ready to be unleashed upon the Lost and the Damned, to protect the galaxy from the madness of the Illuminated Empire. A great host of Order, ready to stand against the forces of Chaos and crush them once and for all. And at its head, was the _Macragge's Honour_ , the great flagship of the Ultramarines – and aboard that ship, sitting upon the command throne, resurrected from his long slumber by the works of the Mechanicus, was none other than Roboute Guilliman.

Magnus saw his brother's soul from the _Planet Killer_ , his sight no longer shrouded by his obsession to avenge himself on Khayon, and the Crimson King screamed. His rage birthed a thousand daemons, adding to the might of the Black Crusade's armada. Perturabo smiled coldly, rejoicing at this chance to humble his hidebound brother one last time, and gave the order to attack, his will spreading across several systems, propelling billions of damned souls forward.

And so the great war between the Illuminated Empire and the Imperium, that had been delayed for thousands of years by the Necromancer and his Black Legion, began at last.

* * *

AN : And here we are at last. This story is _over_. Yes, I know an ending like that sucks, since you would very much like to know what happens next. Listen, perhaps in the far future I will write a follow-up story, but I already have _one_ set of Times of Endings to write with the Roboutian Heresy. I can't do two at the same time.

This is actually the first time I _finish_ a story published on the Web. Hmm. It feels ... weird. Not bad, but definitively weird. I began that story as something of a joke, writing the first chapter in a single rush of inspiration during my lunch break nearly two years ago. I thought it would be fun to play with all the characters of the Eye of Terror without worrying about it ... and it _was_ fun. I wrote galaxy-shaking events in just two or three pages, tried my hand at horror and Lovecraft-style stories with _The Call of Ahriman_ and the other Annexes _..._ I even experimented with giving the audience a say into what direction the story would take next via the polls I set up on spacebattles. I don't remember all of them, just that the last one was about how Khayon would go about destroying the remnants of the Slaaneshi Host. If you had chosen something else than the Sons of Horus, this story may have ended very differently.

I hope all of you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it. Please tell me what you thought about this last chapter, and the story in general. And if you have ideas for other "what-if" scenarii, _please_ tell me. No crossovers, though : just stuff that could possibly have happened in the WH40K universe. I feel that's still a pretty large range of possibilities.

On that matter, one of the readers asked me what's the status on the story I mentioned in an earlier chapter, about Horus being resurrected by the Dark Gods. Well, that story has evolved since then : now it's a "What if Horus had _survived_ the Heresy". The goal of the story was to see how different things would be with the Warmaster in the Eye of Terror, and it made more sense to just have him survive.

Concerning the _advancement_ of that story, it's going to be a one-shot, not a full fic like this one has been. I want to write a full timeline of events from the Heresy to the end of the Dark Millennium. Right now, I am at about 7k words written for it, but it's probably going to be much bigger before it's done. I will work on it in the background of my other projects, until I am satisfied with it.

There is another project in the works, one that has been waiting half-finished for over a year now, with me coming back to it every so often to add a few hundred words to it before leaving it alone for weeks again. That one is something akin to the RPG module books, like the series of "By Night" books published by White Wolf for Vampire : The Masquerade. It's a presentation of a setting (here, a daemon world within the Eye of Terror, ruled by a mortal instead of a Chaos Marine), with the profiles of a lot of characters and a list of interesting locations on the planet.

Work continues on the next chapter of the Roboutian Heresy. I am still in the phase of building the skeleton of the chapter : I know how it starts and where it must end, but that's not enough. Once I am done with that phase, I will be able to sit in front of my computer and just fill in the blanks with thousand upon thousand of words simply by letting the juices flow, but for now I need to actually _work_ on that thing if I want it to be as good as it needs to be.

For now, I think I am going to focus on the next chapter of Warband of the Forsaken Sons. It may be shorter than what I initially planned : I am thinking of cutting the big chapter into several smaller ones, to make it more like an actual book instead of the episodic format I have used so far in that fic. Now that I have completed one of my stories, perhaps I can try to finish another one (though Warband of the Forsaken Sons still has an entire arc to go through before it's complete, so considering my rate of publication for it, it will probably still be ongoing this time next year).

... Alright, time to close the curtains on that one. Goodbye, The Fifteenth Ascendant. It was fun.

Zahariel out.


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